Broken City
by Director Denial
Summary: Fighting your best friend to death? That's easy. Fighting to stay alive, that's the hard part.
1. Trailer

**Cycle 9, Trailer**

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THE FOLLOWING PREVIEW HAS BEEN APPROVED FOR ALL AUDIENCES

BY THE BROADCAST ASSOCIATION OF AMERICA, INC.

THE PROGRAM ADVERTISED HAS BEEN RATED M FOR MATURE.

STRONG LANGUAGE; GRAPHIC AND PERVASIVE VIOLENCE; BLOOD AND GORE; ALCOHOL, TOBACCO, AND DRUG USE; NUDITY; SEXUAL CONTENT; RAPE; PHYSICAL, EMOTIONAL, VERBAL, AND SEXUAL ABUSE OF CHILDREN; SELF-INJURIOUS BEHAVIOR; THEMATIC ELEMENTS OF RACISM, SEXISM, HETEROSEXISM, ABLEISM, CLASSISM, AND BIGOTRY; AND OCCASIONAL BREAKS FROM REALITY

* * *

**TITLE**: 'The Proper Way to Fight a Battle Royale' by the Education Reform Act Committee

(The title fades to darkness, dissolving into the jet black night sky over a city skyline. Aside from isolated buildings that are lit up with minuscule lights, the landscape is completely stationary. There are no signs of vehicles or pedestrians.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: Hello, everyone in the graduating class of Haven's Mill High School! You are the lucky class chosen for this year's Battle Royale! Congratulations!

(A quick flash of a dozen terrified faces, each one flashing by before the mind can fully register the last face. Each person is dressed to appear as the stereotype of the clique they belong to. The montage includes a jock, a skater, a cheerleader, a nerd, a thug, a prep girl, an actress, a party girl, a disabled teen, a hipster, and a hoodlum girl.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: Want to know how to take part in a Battle Royale? Listen up to fight right with gusto!

(Two boys grapple each other on rust and broken stones, as the camera pans up to reveal a stack of flattened automobiles in a junkyard. One of the boys appears to have a crooked arm. The other boy keeps him pinned down with his knees, throwing punches at the downed boy's face. A gout of blood jets out of his nose as he howls in pain.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: The objective of the game is to eliminate all your competitors before they eliminate you! Only one of you can survive the game! This is an opportunity for you to prove your worth and your devotion to this nation!

(Two teenagers dodge as a sizzling flare explodes between them, forcing one of them to run off the screen as they beat down the flames on their shirt. Blinded, the other boy in the building staggers with both hands outstretched.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: You are in an urban arena that looks like this! It is shaped like a square and about six miles in length and width. The city has been abandoned by its previous inhabitants, so there should be plenty of room for you to fight!

(Footage of an expanse of city blocks shot from an overhead helicopter flying over the landscape. The camera moves over a well-maintained middle class neighborhood, across a silvery band of water that bisects the arena into two sides, hovers over a run-down shanty town that has gone derelict from disuse, finally passing over a section of the ghetto that has been ravaged by fire.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: The arena has been divided into many zones. Every hour, we will announce updates of which of your competitors have been eliminated, as well as a list of danger zones! Each danger zone will remain forbidden for six hours, so make sure you pay attention to each announcement!

(A mousy girl runs wildly down the street and looks in all directions in fear. As she overtakes a corner and barrels out onto the road, a hand snatches her by her shirt and throws her to the ground. Terrified, the girl shrieks as she crawls back.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: If you are in these zones… you better be running! Because the collars you are wearing are a hundred percent waterproof, shock-proof, and tamper-proof! They monitor your pulse and let us know where you are and if you are still alive.

(A battered and beaten boy is sprawled on the floor, limbs contorted at unnatural angles. Blood seeps from various cuts and scrapes, staining the tattered clothes that he is wearing. Although his chest is still and he appears to be lifeless, the red light blinking in time with his heartbeat indicates that he is still alive.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: If you stay for too long in a danger zone or break the rules, we can identify you and transmit a radio wave that detonates your collar! If you try to remove your collar, it will also explode!

(Close up of a blinking red light. The camera draws away to reveal that it is clipped on a bloodied teenager's neck. As the flashes increases in frequency, its wearer tugs the metal collar with all their might. After a beat, the collar explodes in a blast of blood, fire, and detached fingers.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: The announcements will also let you know which of your classmates have been awarded the Most Valuable Player award! They will be given a chance to acquire some weaponry or equipment in the game, so make sure you fight hard for the award!

(A camera pans in a circular trajectory, a three-sixty shot that reveals eight students standing at various places in a gas station. Each wields a weapon of some sort, ranging from guns to a baseball bat. While the faces of some are tentative, the majority look simply keen. A moment passes. Suddenly, bullets fly, weapons swing, and bodies fall.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: You will leave one by one in numerical order after acquiring your pack. Inside, you will find food and water, a flashlight, a mobile phone, a digital watch, some things to help you stay dry in the rain, and an electronic PDA with information on your classmates and the battlefield!

(A well-dressed girl holds a handgun in a manicured hand as she creeps down the street. The camera pans to the front, revealing an unarmed boy strolling along, unaware that he has a stalker.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: Each of you will also receive a different designated weapon, and it's not just guns and knives! The distribution is randomized, so it negates any genetic advantages! Hope you find one that's super lucky!

(A montage of teenagers opening their packs and pulling out their designated weapons, including a handgun, a sickle, a bulletproof vest, a stockwhip, a crossbow, a fire ax, a shotgun, a trench shovel, a kukri, and a ceramic elephant.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: Remember, kids, only one person can win the game! Will you kill your best friend?

(A girl runs down the streets as shots rain down from above. She trips on her heels, regains her footing, then whips out a gun and fires back at her attacker. Her shots bounce off an aluminum window frame with loud clangs, forcing the boy inside to duck.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: Or will your best friend kill you?

(An emotional boy holds a gun in one hand and smears the tears around his eyes with his other hand. The weapon is trained at the torso of his athletic friend, who pleads desperately with him. The pair stand in silence for a moment, and a loud noise rings out as one of the boys collapse.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: Make your choice...

(A living body plummets from the edge of a tall building, writhing with bright flames even as it falls.)

(A girl tucks her pistol underneath her chin with tears running down her face. The camera focuses on her finger as she tugs the trigger, a bullet ripping her head apart in a massive spray of blood.)

(A handsome boy tosses a Bible aside as he flips a butterfly knife open in a practiced maneuver.)

(Two people face each other in front of a church lectern, decked out in wedding attire. They hold each other's hands and lean in for a kiss. Before their lips touch, gunfire rings out as bullets land around them. The lovers quickly dive behind the wooden pews.)

(Two motorcycles zip past each other as they speed down a high bridge above the river.)

(A hand meticulously loads a single bullet into a six-shot revolver, snaps the chamber shut, and spins it with a series of loud clicks.)

**ANNOUNCER (VO)**: Battle Royale and all associated programs are brought to you by the Education Reform Act Committee of the United States of America.

(Specks of red dust appear, slowly at first, then flicker to become the official Education Reform Act seal. The insignia then segues into a darkness so deep that the screen is practically a mirror.)

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**Author's Note**: _Broken City_ is first and foremost a story of people and the things they do. The Battle Royale is a framing device; the real plot comes from the fifty teenagers whose stories drive what will hopefully make for a damn good read. I hope the reader will come to know and love some of these characters as much as I do, as the universe they live in certainly doesn't show them enough.

For the purpose of storytelling, I hold no illusions that _Broken City_ is or will ever be a realistic depiction of Battle Royale in the real world. I only hope it is believable enough that the breaks from reality now and then do not throw you out of the story too much. The story contains a mixture of things and concepts that are taken from real life, other works of fiction, and the rest of that from somewhere in my mind that I'm still extracting all of this from. As the above warning shows, a lot of the themes touched upon in _Broken City_ are common triggers. The reader proceeds at their own risk, though if requested by PM, a list of trigger warnings by chapter can be provided. If there's anything about _Broken City_, its characters, or its universe that the reader would like to discuss with me, I'd love to hear from you by review, PM, or otherwise.

To paraphrase a talented actor, one man's craziness is another man's reality. To me, _Broken City_ and the place it comes out of is both my craziness and reality. I hope you enjoy.


	2. Grief

**Heavenly Town Grieves in Wake of Endgame**

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By Lynn Coffey, junior editor. June 5, the Daily Tattler.

With only its final hour left to showcase, the upcoming conclusion to Cycle 9 of Battle Royale US is sure to leave America in a buzz that will persist for months to come, but to the inhabitants of Haven's Mill, the hometown that produced this crop of contestants, the water-cooler conversation is simply not happening. No talk of who deserved to make it farther and who overstayed their welcome, which potential contender was doomed by their randomly assigned weapon, or how graphic the deaths were growing from year to year. In fact, the casual tourist to Haven's Mill might mistake this idyllic town for a mute settlement if the locals' silence and hostility were anything to go by.

"Don't blame us, blame the media s-storm for making us this way," says owner of a local non-alcoholic saloon and teenager hangout, Ellen Ripley. The sixty-two year old's eyes betray a lifetime of wisdom and pain. "You think we like having to answer questions about these dead kids that we knew? These kids have parents. Siblings. Friends. Leave us the f- alone."

But the collective pain does not draw away from the daily trivialities of life. In four days, Haven's Mill High School will commemorate the passage of its 141 surviving graduates, but the event is expected to be no celebration. To many of these teenagers, this would be the second time they would gather in the HMHS auditorium for that purpose. Many openly express their wish to abscond the event, not wanting any more reminders of their lost friends and loved ones. Senior student Jacob Withers, who is called upon to replace class valedictorian Rosita Morales as speech-giver, admits he has sizable shoes to fill. "[Rosita] is an amazing person... she isn't just a girl with a high GPA. She has vision and belief. She is exactly what this world needs... I think that's why they took her." Originally placing fifth out of 191, Withers now finds himself at the top of the class – a feat that comes at an alarming price.

In fact, the contestants of BR9 are more than accomplished in the craft of murdering their peers. This reporter has tracked down the HMHS trophy room, in which the polished tributes to their great achievements are lauded by the intimate care of their friends. Varsity swimmers Nicholas Chau and Michael Torres were members of the crew finishing in first place at the state meet in their junior year. Teen beauty Heather Montoya was the proud crown-bearer of state Miss Charming for three years running. Painter and theater set designer Andrew Lewis holds a dozen titles of various calibers, of which the most impressive is an art-piece entitled _Atlantis Risen_ short-listed for the Jack Smith Painting Prize.

"We've got so many great players, not just in my jurisdiction, but also basketball, swimming, wrestling, hell, even cheerleading," says football Coach Ross Davies, no relation to BR9 contestant Amias Davies. "I don't think many of them would have gone state, but guys like [Ryan] Santos, guys like [Shaun] Pelletier and [Travis] Portillo, some of them had plans for college that involved football. Ask [swimming coach Roland] Bowman and he'd say the same for Torres and Chau. [Cheerleading coach Velma] Barbeaux would tell you all about [Blair] Jennings, [Cheryl] Lopez, [and Stella] Corinthos. We're all hurting."

HMHS academic counselor Emma Rigenwald tells of the bright future she expected of them. "It's so sad because they won't get to live their wonderful, fulfilling lives. The world should not be celebrating, it should be mourning the loss of these fifty talented boys and girls."

"I think the parents have it worst," says vice-principal Sharon Gupta, who admits she finds herself unable to file away the fifty student records, which would have been customary in the event of a student death. "We all knew these kids, but they were the ones who spent a good part of their life bringing their children up."

"Can you imagine finally raising your kid past eighteen, only to have them taken away in a freak accident?" says local therapist Dr. Miguel Torres, whose seemingly impartial retelling does not completely mask his pain at having a son taken into the game. "This is fifty times worse."

Others prefer to shadow their grief with detachment. Tabitha Merris admits she is not the only parent with this tactic, preferring to think of her son Callum as having never existed. "It's not easy... but it's what we all do. Ida [Kowalski, mother of Richard Kowalski Jr.] already moved away. We all need a fresh start to distract us from our pain."

But for the inhabitants of Haven's Mill, life must go on. The same has to be said for its teenage population, despite the tender absence of their peers. Churchgoers now find themselves with empty pews that would have been filled by Isaiah Jackson and Miranda Singer. Baristas at the local Mean Bean are disconcerted without the regular writing club gatherings that Jason Fletcher, Lydia Shumway, and Selena Diaz would have attended. Even local law enforcement admits that the departure of certain members of the town's criminal element comes as an unexpected regret.

"We all want to cut down the crime rate, you know? But not this way, you know?" says Haven's police officer Roger Garrett. "I could still name all of those kids without even looking at their rap sheets. [Riley] Quentino, [Ariel] Martinez, [Diego] Vega, [Lindsey] Pryce, [Diana] Kudrin... I hesitate to call them troublemakers sometimes. They're just kids with the wrong ideas."

In as little as twenty-four hours, BR9 is set to reveal the final game hour, where the contestants still in play are expected to duel in order to determine the final victor standing. The ultimate winner – whose identity remains a nationally guarded secret to this date – will be revealed at the Los Angeles Staples Center, and is expected to give a nationwide tour to all fifty states. Some locals, however, are banking on a different outcome. "I hope none of those kids win," local spa owner Marie Epperly says with a mixture of pity and disgust. "I don't think any of them could live with themselves after... I certainly couldn't. But I won't fault them if they do what they have to do." In the event of a draw, no contestant is declared victorious. To date, this has not happened in eight previous reiterations of the game, but it remains to be seen if BR9 will be the first.

It appears the excitement does not permeate among HMHS inhabitants. "I don't know what happened to my friends, and I don't plan on finding out," senior Chelsea Murray says. "It's like an unspoken pact... None of us are watching the game. We don't know what happens. We still don't know who's dead or who's living."

Despite their refusal to follow the events of BR9, these teenagers know the now household names as Blake Barreto, Rosalyn Cruz, and Sofia Rivenez more than anyone else in America. Though they would have been unable to match these names to their unofficial titles of victim, player, and rebel, nearly any HMHS student could have reported being bullied by one of these names or other at one point. "I don't want to badmouth the dead, but [Barreto] was the worst. Not that [Cruz and Rivenez] were any better. They made my life – our lives – a living hell," says chess enthusiast Daniel James Moore, a sentiment echoed by practicing Goth Jen "Charybdis" Perez, online movie reviewer Nolan Murdock, and popular seraph book series _Sunrise_ cosplayer Amelia Smith.

Though many dwell in the past, there are those who are ready to move on from grieving. "I'll always miss my teammates and my friends, my ex-boyfriend, the people in my classes, who I ate lunch with... We'll always miss them. But I'm thankful that I'm still alive – even if no one else dares to admit it. Doesn't mean it hurts any less," says cheerleader and matchmaker Megan Jones. When asked if she expects the pain to abate, she admits she does not know. "Maybe it will get better. Maybe we will forget, but we will never really _forget_."

In the wake of the town's grief, this reporter feels we must question the integrity of the Education Reform Act, a program which has reported continued success since its implementation – or has it? In his controversial tell-all tale, former Battle Royale media correspondent and current political dissenter Brock Hillary lays out that the only success the ERA has seen is financial. Hillary's publication is, to date, banned in all fifty states, but rumors of underground copies circulate in every major city. Nevertheless, even discounting Hillary's findings, this reporter feels the public has a responsibility to re-examine the ERA. It is an act that promises and questionably delivers national stability and patriotism, but what is often forgotten is the fear, grief, and anger that comes as a hefty price.

* * *

Following press of her article, Coffey has been charged with political dissent and is taken into government custody. News of her condition while detained is practically non-existent. To date, she has yet to receive a trial. The Daily Tattler currently faces charges of libel and sedition, and is in the process of takeover by an unnamed media company.


	3. Contestant List

**Cycle 9, Contestant List**

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B1: Barreto, Blake

G1: Barbara, Liz

B2: Callahan, Jake

G2: Belluscio, Maria

B3: Chau, Nicholas

G3: Breckinridge, Kate

B4: Cortez, Cristian "CC"

G4: Carras, Salome

B5: Davies, Amias

G5: Chavez, Riona

B6: Fletcher, Jason

G6: Ciccone, Ava

B7: Herald, Charlie

G7: Corinthos, Stella

B8: Jackson, Isaiah

G8: Cruz, Rosalyn

B9: Johnson, Chris "Knut"

G9: Diaz, Selena

B10: Jones, Tyrell

G10: Harper, Vienna

B11: Kowalski, Richard Jr. "Richie"

G11: Jennings, Blair

B12: Lewis, Andrew

G12: Kudrin, Diana

B13: MacDougal, Heathcliff "Heath"

G13: LaBelle, Miriam "Mimi"

B14: Merris, Callum

G14: Lopez, Cheryl

B15: Park, Stephen

G15: Martinez, Ariel

B16: Pelletier, Shaun

G16: Montoya, Heather

B17: Portillo, Travis

G17: Morales, Rosita

B18: Quentino, Riley

G18: Ortiz, Nikita

B19: Russell, Neil

G19: Pryce, Lindsey

B20: Santos, Ryan

G20: Reynaud, Cassi

B21: Sarian, Royce

G21: Rivenez, Sofia

B22: Sedlak, Jonathon

G22: Russell, Chantal

B23: Torres, Michael

G23: Shumway, Lydia

B24: Tsai, Spencer

G24: Singer, Miranda

B25: Vega, Diego

G25: Yang, Helena


	4. T Minus

**Cycle 9, T Minus**

**50 Students Remaining**

* * *

It was the sound of rainfall that carpeted their journey from the unconscious realm back to the real world. Soothing to some, irritating to others, the rain pitter-pattered on in a constant drone that faded as white noise in the background. Hardly any of the waking contestants of the ninth cycle of Battle Royale US paid the noises any mind at first, though given that fifty of them would soon awaken to find themselves and their classmates strapped to a plush chair with metal cuffs on their hands and collars around their necks, well, you had to admit that a little rain wasn't really on the top of anybody's priorities right now. Instead, the knockout gases that had been pumped into their lungs with a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen wore off gradually, leaving the senior class of Haven's Mill High School to come to at different paces.

Graduation. That was the last that any of them could remember with reasonable conviction. Decked out in the cheaply rented academic gowns and square caps, the HMHS graduating class had gathered in the school's auditorium in expectation of the day's ceremonies. While more than a few had loudly professed they wanted nothing more to do with the town much less their high school classmates, the majority had simply been content to lay back and let the events unfold. In all likelihood, this would be one of the last times to see their high school acquaintances, and the virtue of that made everything bearable at the very least.

Everything had been great. Everything had been normal.

None of them had any reason to expect otherwise.

Charlie Herald (designation: B7) came back to the real world with a great yawn, taking in a mouthful of oxygen to rouse his sluggish mind. His hands rose instinctively to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but found a strange resistance that kept them pinned to his sides. He couldn't move or feel his arms. That was odd. Maybe he had laid on her arms the wrong way while he was sleeping, cutting off the circulation and pretty much any sort of sensation or motor control.

What had happened? The last he could remember, it was graduation. So what had happened? He had been at the auditorium. He remembered Ava Ciccone (designation: G5) throwing around the idea of a no holds barred bash at Polyamory, one of the clubs downtown with lax rules. He was with the other guys, passing around flasks of smuggled liquor as class valedictorian Rosita Morales (designation: G17) delivering a mind-numbing speech that spoke of the American Dream and lots of Ralph Waldo Emerson quotes. Things had gotten hazy and he had been thinking maybe he was overdoing the booze... He definitely recalled being tipsy and nearly toppling into one of the girls at one point. Had he gotten soused and passed out? No hangover though, that was strange.

Still, he had promised mama to dial back the alcohol after graduation, maybe he ought to start now. College, he would stop the drinking there. Great as the parties he'd miss out on may be, the booze was poison. He couldn't keep it up forever. Mama did have a point, even if she always worried too much. She worried about his drinking. She worried about his track. Do this, don't eat that, stay on a diet, don't do sports, that could kill you. It was enough to drive anyone nuts. Still... she meant well, right? But come on, nothing ever happened, nothing ever will.

But he had been out cold for what felt like days. For the life of him, he couldn't recall what it was that knocked him out nor did he realize where exactly he was. There was only the soundtrack of rain echoing from outside, giving no real clue to his whereabouts. He wasn't sure how long she had been unconscious, but the lack of sensation in his body was definitely a telltale sign that things were wrong. His entire body ached and felt heavier than it ought to. With the intention of getting some grasp of his surroundings, Charlie raised his weary head from his chest, eyes opening to surprising comfort in the absence of light, save for a number of weak, drifting LED lights. Fighting the imaginary weight on his eyelids, Charlie willed the sleep to go away with a few quick blinks. He winced as the pain from his eyes and temples subsided for the slightest bit.

The world, dark as it was, came back into focus. Shadows and shapes loomed ahead, though in seconds they were quickly recognizable as bodies. Most, like himself, were teenagers, a mixture of boys and girls around his age. Each of them was sitting (or strapped?) in pairs of furbished chair lined with crimson plush, the kind you'd see at the movies. If not for the screen that remained unlit, he might have mistakenly thought they were in attendance for a midnight showing of Rocky Horror.

Although it wasn't noticeable at first, the ring of overhead lights came on with minimal intensity, enough that he could begin to discern sights. Instead, Charlie found himself increasingly bemused as he craned his neck to look around the hall.

Not everybody was out cold. Two or three others were upright and looking around, while more than a few were already stirring in their seats. Catching sight of a familiar face, he took note that these people were his classmates. Most of them he knew on sight, even if they weren't on a first name basis.

The boy slumped in the chair in front of him was recognizable as Jake Callahan (designation: B2) due to the prominent tip of his bleached hair. Stella Corinthos (designation: G8), cheerleader and longtime girlfriend of his good friend Heath, stirred in a matching seat next to his, her head tilted sideways and spilling her long, blonde hair into her lap. Somewhere in the room, a girl's cry pushed a familiar face in his mind. Though he couldn't see her from where he was sitting, he now knew with grim certainty that she was here as well.

Pretty with a face full of freckles, Ariel Martinez (designation: G15) was known around the high school circuit as, for lack of a better word, the school slut. To most of the guys and girls in school, at least, though Charlie was confident he knew more than they did. She was beautiful in a way, even if many would call her trashy or a number of choice terms, the least offending of which was 'tarnished'. She was never mean, not unless someone else had decided her reputation called for some sort of provocation. She was... well, an embarrassing crush considering how they first met.

It had been a drunken romp at a party, there wasn't really any other way to call it. It was junior year, after the HMHS Crows had pummeled the opposing Hornets on the basketball court. Team center Heath MacDougal (designation: B13) had called together a celebratory affair at his house. 'Affair' was a misnomer, as the night was little but an excuse to call together a bunch of the school's most prestigious and get wildly drunk. As small forward and occasional shooting guard, Charlie had made a cursory appearance. He'd downed a few beers, played a game of _Battle Royale: Unrated_ on Heath's console (he started out with the rope, spent half of the game trying to find an ally, then died when an NPC student pinned him down in the infirmary and shot him). All in all, it was a decent night. Fun by his standards, harmless by Heath's. He was just getting ready to leave.

And then he met Ariel.

He was just getting ready to leave when she grabbed him by his jacket, her tiny fists bunching up the fabric. Charlie suddenly found himself smothered in her frizzy hair as the girl forcefully kissed him. For a first kiss, it was remarkably unromantic.

Mortified, he leapt back and tripped over his feet. Getting up from the carpeted hall, Charlie viewed the girl with some hesitation as she approached him alluringly. Her smile was methodical, but at the same time there was genuine charm behind it. Extending a helping hand, she asked him if he wanted to find a place more private and get more frisky. For the record, he wasn't that one night stand type of guy, far as he always thought of himself anyway. But something about the alcohol in his system, something about his recent break-up with Kara, something about Ariel that made him nod dumbly.

And... it was a done deal. He'd been hasty and clumsy and mechanical and frankly scared as all hell. He didn't expect to lose his virginity to the easiest girl in Haven's Mill, if the rumor mill held any truth. He certainly didn't expect to fall in lo-

Confusion arose as a girl's scream came from near him, snapping his thread of thought. To his right, Stella had awoken and was feebly trying to get to her feet.

Anxiety set in when he noticed the restraints that kept Stella from leaving her chair. There were metal bands on her armrests that were clipped around her wrist, in addition to a collar of similar design on her neck.

Panic erupted when he tried to move closer and found himself caught in identical restraints. Wrists, ankles, all four of his limbs were bound to the chair by silver bands. He couldn't look far enough down to confirm, but seeing them attached to everybody else's necks, he had to assume he bore the collar too.

"What the hell's going on here?" His question was met with only the background murmurs from those who were awake.

More and more people were awakening, some roused by their seatmates, others coming to of their own accords. Much like himself, their questions were etched on their faces. _Where am I? Why am I here? What is going on?_ Nobody seemed to have any idea what was going on, though had Charlie been more observant, he would have seen a few react with more recognition than they should have. Amateur photographer Amias Davies (designation: B5) clenched his jaw as he waited nervously, while the rich ingénue Mimi LaBelle (designation: G13) was in inconsolable tears.

"I told him, I told him, I told him, why didn't he listen to me?" Mimi practically bawled as the nearby students tried to console her. Despite that he was always quick to improvise a joke, even the flamboyantly camp Andrew Lewis (designation: B12) was unable to get her sobs to subside.

While most of the students were up and about in nothing short of utter confusion, Charlie was one of the few that noticed the woman slip into the room. To her credit, her appearance was done so in as unobtrusive a way as possible. The door itself was a panel sunk into the paneled walls at the side of the room, where its faded outline was the only hint of the passage's existence. She stepped into the room with a look that suggested she could smell some sort of stench. In her hands she held a clipboard, a neat blue pen snagged on the top. She walked on raised heels, each step echoing with a clop on the tiled floor. Briskly and with purpose, she strutted past the several stunned students in the first row, leaving behind the remnant scent of autumn flora.

Coming up to the front of the room, she stood before the screen and turned to face the students. It wasn't until the overhead spotlights converged twin beams on her that everybody noticed her. For the first time, the room was stunned into silence as the woman regarded the students from behind her spectacles. She was beautiful in an unremarkable way, her hair coiffed and bundled up in high curls, her figure concealed in a dark skirt suit.

The screen behind her flickered on, cycling through a few faces (some of which he recognized, others he didn't) before zooming in on the newcomer woman's face. For the first time, Charlie noticed the surreptitious cameras that had been installed all over the room, the most prominent of which was installed where he would expect the projector to be.

"Well, aren't you a pleasant bunch." Her voice carried a distasteful tone, as if someone had just asked her to take a dip in organic fertilizer. "One would imagine any full grown teenager should know to greet a superior on sight. Serves you all right, I guess."

With a long-suffering sigh, she held up the clipboard and said, "You may refer to me as Ms. Fitzpatrick. Unlike other instructors, I do not implement overly stringent rules in my class nor do I favor premature eliminations, but I will demand basic etiquette. If I call upon you, I expect you to answer. If I do not, I expect you to remain silent. Now, can I have… let's start with Boy Number One. That's you, Mr. Barreto."

The overhead camera swiveled to zoom in on the first seat in the first row. The face that many a student at Haven's Mill had come to fear appeared onscreen. Looking quite confused at the happenings, Blake Barreto (designation: B1) looked on the woman as he tilted his head. "Uh, yes?"

"Why don't you tell me about yourself?" Ms. Fitzpatrick said with the bare hint of a smile. "Go on."

He was even more confused by the question. Never much of a public speaker, Blake nevertheless attempted to answer the woman's question to his best ability. "Uh, my name is Blake, I guess, Blake Barreto. I'm eighteen, I like wrestling and, uh, movies, I'm an active guy, I guess? I've been wrestling since I was eight, so it's a big deal to me. And… yeah, I guess that's it?"

Looking at the woman for some clue or other, Blake found only more confusion as the woman made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Now, class, you see, this is exactly the reason why you are here. That is a terrible way of answering. Poor articulation and speech structure aside… Mr. Barreto, you failed to mention the influence your family has on you. You are shameful of your father's meager business, despite his efforts in raising you. You left out the mention that your physical prowess afforded you the privilege to walk the earth like it belonged to you. You did not mention the fact that you are a bully to your peers, including Ms. Carras, Mr. Kowalski, Mr. Lewis, and Ms. Ortiz, to name a few. You left out your poor self image over your dreadful acne condition. Above all, you mentioned nothing of your strengths or weaknesses. Honestly, how do you expect us teachers to work with kids like you?"

Her words were delivered in a flat tone, but its contents could not have been more inflammatory if she had stabbed the boy with the blue pen she held. Each comment was a specified dig at the burly boy, getting him to look quite furious and embarrassed at the same time. Though it was rather difficult to intimidate someone while strapped into a theater seat, Blake shot her a glare as his lips curled into a snarl. "Bitch! Who the hell do you thi-"

Blake was cut off as Ms. Fitzpatrick strode up to him and jabbed him in the shoulder with a pointed finger, saying with clear venom in her voice, "If you value your pitifully empty head, Mr. Barreto, you will shut your mouth. Let it be known that I will not tolerate profanity in my class. If any of you attempt this kind of disrespect again, I will ensure that everybody else remembers why that would be a very, very bad idea."

Leaving the shocked boy with mouth agape, Ms. Fitzpatrick proceeded. "Now that Mr. Barreto has embarrassed himself with his pitiful introduction, can we have Girl Number One? Ms. Barbara, please."

Taking note of the way Blake's confrontation had gone, studious beauty Liz Barbara (designation: G1) tried her best to maintain her composure. "Yes, miss."

"Clever girl," Ms. Fitzpatrick remarked with a twitch of her lips. "I like you, Ms. Barbara. I will like you more if you can correctly identify why you, and the rest of your classmates, are here."

Secretly thankful for the bindings that concealed a quiver in her calves, Liz raised her head. Looking the woman straight in the eye with some intimidation, she replied, "If I may hazard a guess? Because we are enlisted in the Education Reform Act, miss."

Ms. Fitzpatrick smiled with a raised eyebrow, looking as though she was quite secretive. "That is correct, Ms. Barbara. I was looking for a more detailed answer, but that is the gist of it. Still, all things considered, not a bad effort, not at all. You may sit down."

If the room was quiet under Ms. Fitzpatrick's watchful eye, it was dead silent now. Even the sobs that had been emanating from Mimi were temporarily hushed, though tears still streamed down the girl's contorted face. In truth, none of them were unaware of the reality of the Education Reform Act, or Battle Royale as it had come to be known colloquially. Though the details were something only the ardent fans sought out, the basic premise was something everybody came to know and fear.

"The Education Reform Act, or Battle Royale, if you want to be crude," Ms. Fitzpatrick spoke as she paced at the front of the class, as though she was a history teacher at a lecture, "is a policy instated nine years ago, wherein a class of teenagers will be selected based on a pre-determined algorithm. This enlisted class must take on and eliminate one another until only one remains. This is the principle of the Education Reform Act, and the part I believe most of you are familiar with. However, my responsibilities here constitute briefing you on the other rules that you should be aware of, in order for full participation in the game."

A metallic screech echoed out as Chantal Russell (designation: G22) let out a harpy-like shriek. Her facial features were twisted in fury that bled into her voice. "Excuse me, game? This is just a game to you? How can you say something like that when my brother-"

"Your twin brother," Ms. Fitzpatrick smiled toxically, "is far more well-bred than you are, Ms. Russell, if this outburst is of any indication. Your ill manners aside, I stand corrected as Ms. Russell informs me – the accurate word choice here is 'simulation'. 'Game' is indeed a misnomer, but I digress."

As she turned away from Chantal, she deliberately met the eyesight of Neil Russell (designation: B19), who looked as though he would have a difficult time restraining himself if not for the metal wrist and ankle cuffs. Ms. Fitzpatrick tapped her pen on the clipboard. "The most important thing here is your designated collar."

There was a flurry of murmurs as many noticed the metal bands fitted around their throats for the first time. Having sit by and watched the debacle between Blake, Liz, and the woman who called herself Ms. Fitzpatrick, Charlie blinked and looked over to his seatmate Stella. The cheerleader was trying to examine her own collar, but found it impossible to bend her chin far enough down to do so. Having encountered similar trouble with his, Charlie instead tried to examine Stella's as she twisted in her chair. The metal collar was smooth and crafted out of seamless metal. There was no way to slip the ringlet off without breaking the collar itself. The front of its curved surface held a series of flashing lights, as well as a digital monitor readout that showed her denomination 'G7'.

"Your collar is loaded with a radio-activated explosive," Ms. Fitzpatrick said, "and can also be triggered by attempting to remove your collar, being in specific locations, or when you attempt to violate certain rules. They will also monitor your pulse and enable us to know that you are still alive. Once you are released into the simulation location, your collar will be the only companion you cannot separate from. I suggest you get acquainted."

Her lips curved upward, perhaps indicating that what she had said was supposed to be a joke of some sort.

"The location in which this simulation takes place is an urban city that has been cleared. There is also a river that passes through the city, though suffice to say that both the upstream and downstream points will be dammed and closely guarded. The fifty of you are currently located in the Jewel Theater at the center of the city. Upon leaving, you will not be able to return until the simulation is over. You are allowed to enter the buildings, although some may be locked or alarmed. In addition, the automatic lights around town will be activated from 1800 hours to 0600 hours. The lights are activated by motion sensors. For your convenience, all of the lights in the town will be turned on for the initial six hours.

"I hope it will not be necessary for me to remind you, while indoor locations have their own perks, staying in place past the first six hours carries the risk of exposure, especially once night has fallen.

"Over the course of the game, specific locations will transform into restricted areas, or danger zones, as they have come to be known. If you are inside a danger zone, your collar will be activated. You will be informed when and which area will become a danger zone. Once a location turns into a danger zone, they will cease to be accessible for six hours, after which it will return to normal.

"Now, each of you will also receive a designated pack. For the most part, their contents will be identical – four bottles of mineral water, assorted food supplies from our sponsors, a first-aid kit, a bottle of caffeine pills, a set of ear plugs, a mobile phone, a battery-powered flashlight, a set of alternate clothing, and a waterproof PDA. Those of you who have been following the ERA may notice the last item is a new addition. Courtesy of our sponsors at Fruit Computers, your PDA comes pre-loaded with a map of the simulation area, a list of participants, a compass software, and a timepiece function. While consulting the map application, please take special care in noting the boundaries of the simulation field, as you are surrounded by a border of danger zones to ensure no escape from the simulation field.

"What differentiates each pack is that a randomly pre-assigned weapon will be loaded in each pack. Depending on chance, you may receive anything from a firearm to a mundane household item. The purpose of randomization is to even out the odds for each participant – the best fighters among you may not necessarily receive the best weapons. In a fair fight, Ms. Barbara would certainly lose to Mr. Barreto, yet by randomization she may receive a gun to Mr. Barreto's spoon, shall we say. Moreover, some of you may even find an additional bonus item in your packs. These weapons are designed to help you survive and eliminate the other participants.

"Random chance will not be the only determinant in how well equipped you will be. You will be able to gain other weapons or supplies. In addition to robbing other contestants or taking whatever supplies you find within the simulation field, the operators of the simulation have decided that the most and least valuable players in every six hour period, taking into account their intention to play, present status, weapons, and allies, will receive the chance to compete for a weapon. However, no player will be eligible more than once in twenty-four hours.

"The timeframe of the simulation is exactly seventy-two hours, beginning from the second the last of you depart this room. If the simulation is not complete at the end of the three day period – that is to say, if two or more participants still remain – then all remaining collars will be activated. Similarly, if there is no participant eliminated within a six hour period, all remaining collars will be activated. In the last six hours of the game, the simulation field will be restricted to the zones contained within the city's Municipal Park. You may consult your maps for further details.

"In order to help you keep track of the simulation's progression, updates will be broadcasted every six hours, at 0600 hours, 1200 hours, 1800 hours, and 2400 hours. The updates will inform you of which participants have been eliminated. Keep in mind that at least one elimination should occur between each update. The announcements will also include the details of upcoming danger zones, and the players eligible for additional weapons."

Taking a pause, Ms. Fitzpatrick reviewed the clipboard in her hands before looking at the class. "Are there any questions at this point?"

At once, two dozen questions, comments, and exclamations clashed into each other in mid-air. Ms. Fitzpatrick rolled her eyes skyward and set her clipboard under one arm. Reaching into a pocket in her dark jacket, she pulled out a Derringer pistol and raised it to the ceiling.

With a loud BLAM!, the teenagers were forced into ear-ringing silence as the woman pocketed her pistol. Ms. Fitzpatrick spoke with anger behind her words, "Control yourselves! I will not withstand this bedlam under my watch! Return to your seats!"

Facing the deathly silent class, she continued, "What a disgrace! To think that your class is representative of our nation's youth!"

Ms. Fitzpatrick pinched the skin between her eyebrows, murmuring for nearly half a minute before she could compose herself. "I will allow one question from the class. Girl... no, Boy. Lucky Number Seven. Yes, that's you, Mr. Herald, Boy Number Seven. You may pose a question."

He had been stunned into silence, and the ringing in his ears persisted long enough that he just about missed the entirety of what Ms. Fitzpatrick had said following the gunshots. Nevertheless, the screen that showed his face, as well as the intensity at which Ms. Fitzpatrick's steely grey eyes bored into him left him no middle ground but to respond. His mouth agape like a fish out of water, he tried to force a word from his lips, but found his throat suddenly parched.

Anxious eyes turned his way, and the camera swiveled to capture each set on the screen. On the third rotation, Charlie caught sight of a huddled girl that had been seated to the far right. Fitted in restraints that had the petite girl squirming with discomfort, Ariel's face was a perfect expression of shock. Her cheeks were stained with smoky tears where mascara dissolved. Her eyes were tinted with despair as she rolled them skyward and continued rattling in her cuffs.

To his surprise, the words bubbled to the surface. "You said... you said that we were selected by some kind of formula? We're good kids. Sure, we're not perfect, but we're good kids mostly. So why us?"

It appeared by the collective hushed breath that the question was one that had weighed on nearly all the minds present. _Why am I part of this? Why was my class chosen? Why do you want me to kill my friends?_

"Well, Mr. Herald, you see, the present algorithm assigns each public high school student in the United States a particular value based on their academic and disciplinary demerits. The combined demerits of all students in your high school correlate with the probability that a class in your school is chosen to take part in the simulation. This is done a year in advance to give time for personal evaluations and selection of participants. Of course, this doesn't account for the effect of transfer or exchange students… but the consequence is minimal. Our algorithm has worked very well in the past."

The words were accompanied by a venomous smile, and Charlie had a sudden urge to scream, to freak out, to do _something_ that would show her she was wrong. The fucking algorithm hadn't been working because this is _wrong_. Charlie was a fan of fucked up things in general, but making kids kill each other was so far down his list it doubled back all the way. _Christ almighty, she's wrong, they're all wrong. This is fucked up._

He was frustrated enough that a crushing pressure had started to build in his chest. Clenching his eyes and banging his skull into the chair's headrest, Charlie felt the discomfort subside for a bit, though the back of his neck was now hurting.

Bringing to mind the unwitting girl of his dreams, Charlie found himself with a growing sense of resolve. He was ready for the Battle Royale to begin. It was fucked up, but at the same time he knew what to do._ You gotta protect her. Ain't nobody else out here but you, you're to only one who'll do it. Find her, make her listen, she needs to know. Didn't have the guts to ask her to the prom, did ya, well how's this for courage? Foolish, foolish, don't do it. No, gotta tell her, last chance on the wall. You'll die, you know that? We'll all die regardless, might as well make your last hours matter, right? As long as she doesn't say thanks but no thanks, oh god I hope she doesn't say no._

With a loud, mechanical click that startled him, the double doors at the back of the hall opened, letting faint light shine into the theater. Seated in the middle of the row farthest back, Michael Torres (designation: B23) and Lydia Shumway (designation: G23) shivered.

"I do believe that's the last thing to be taken care of." Ms. Fitzpatrick pocketed her pistol. "On a side note, I'm aware that most instructors are encouraged to eliminate at least one student before the game begins... but as mentioned, I'm not a fan of such a barbaric practice. Given that your collective behavior has been... tolerable, I am willing to see where each of you can go from here. Well, enough talk, let's get this Battle Royale started, shall we? As I call each of your names by numerical order, please make your way out of this room by the back door. Make sure to collect your packs along the way."

She adjusted the in-ear monitor that had been concealed by a coil of her hair. "I've also been told that we're currently in somewhat of a wet season, so each of you will be provided with a pair of rubber boots and a plastic raincoat. A bit of personal advice, try to stay warm and dry while you fight to win."

With a second clicking noise, the metal restraints that had kept Blake immobile suddenly retracted, leaving the boy reeling as he rubbed his wrists. Ms. Fitzpatrick took on a considerably more joyful tone as she beckoned at the first boy in line. "Boy Number One, Mr. Blake Barreto. You will be first. Best of luck."


	5. Hour 0: Heartbreak

**Cycle 9, Hour 0: Heartbreak**

**50 Students Remaining**

* * *

The former senior class of Haven's Mill High School were now officially designated as the contestants of Battle Royale US, Cycle 9. They were to be released from their wrist and ankle cuffs in succession. With one or two people leaving within the span of sixty seconds, it would take less than half an hour for the entirety of the theater's teenage occupants to enter the simulation field, whereupon they would scuffle to their hearts' content. The game operators had scouted out the fifty individuals ahead of time, analyzing psychological profiles, physical and intelligence tests, inter-personal relationships, and just about every surreptitious source of information they could get their hands on. This was performed in hopes of achieving the greatest game possible, with a reasonable combination of ready killers and ticking time bombs to lay waste to the rest of the class.

As of the precise second at midnight, many of them were still in a state of shock and confusion. A good number had at least found a way to deal with the unexpected, and were formulating a variety of plans as they awaited their entrance into the Battle Royale. Some hoped to find their friends and lovers, others intended to deal as much death and destruction as they could, and there were even the occasional 'oddball contestants' (so named after a girl from Cycle 2 who would rattle her designated 8-ball before every kill, sparing some and killing others at the toy's whim) who would make the competition rather interesting, to say the least.

Blake Barreto (designation: B1) was the first contestant to step into the game field. Though many would have guessed the mean-spirited wrestler to take on the competition fiercely and without mercy, the former bully was simply sullen as he strolled down the aisle towards the exit.

The double doors opened into a dark hallway. Twinkles of LED lights lined the path, guiding the first contestant of BR 9 through the cinema complex, past the lockers where he retrieved his pack and designated weapon, and departed the building via one of its four exits. Once the GPS positioning of his collar was recognized to be out of the Jewel Theater's bounds, Liz Barbara (designation: G1) was freed from her manacles, allowing the girl to run out of the screening room.

Although she too followed the guiding lights, she was directed in a different direction than Blake, eventually pointing her to the southern exit of the Jewel Theater. The purpose of allocating different points of exit at random was to limit any contestant from setting up a chokepoint and taking out the rest of the contestants with ease. It wasn't a perfect measure, as any opportunistic student who had been released early was still capable of eliminating one quarter of the class. In truth, the operators had banked on some of the early students setting up this strategy, taking down some of the cannon fodder and cause some early havoc. Nevertheless, Liz ran off without so much as a pause at the cinema's entrance.

As soon as she stepped out, Jake Callahan (designation: B2) was released. Tapping the front of his collar as he shot his girlfriend a meaningful look, the boy stepped through the doors. In time, Maria Belluscio's (designation: G2) relentless sobbing faded away as she too made her way out.

And so the students left, one after another, slowly populating the city that would become their graveyard.

* * *

It was like being on the receiving end of a countdown. There were twelve boys and girls whose designated numbers came before his, all of whom had already been released and had since left for the city depths. With each passing heartbeat, the seconds ticked down to his eventual departure. To tell the truth, Charlie was conflicted. On the one hand, being stuck in this chair with his limbs bound by stainless steel was unadulterated torture. On the other hand, he couldn't admit to readily wanting to be set free into the battlefield, not when it meant his life would officially be on the roulette.

"Boy Number Seven, Charlie Herald."

For a brief moment, he wondered if the woman actually recognized that each time her lips opened to speak those five simple words, she was condemning yet another life. But the relish on her lips was unmistakable, and Charlie had no doubt that her part in their game was not at all unwilling.

The manacles around his wrists and ankles retracted in a startling sense, throwing him back into reality – or more accurately, what he had to convince himself was reality. Certainly no part of him, neither mind nor body, felt any realism whatsoever in things. He was walking, but it was as though a masterful puppeteer had decided to manipulate his muscles into walking towards the exit. He could see the faces of friends, enemies, acquaintances, and strangers, but what stared back at him with mostly frozen looks of anesthesia was so unrecognizable they were practically alien. The double doors at the back opened automatically as he approached and closed once he had passed, but nothing about the occasion made it seem like it would probably be the last time he'd see most of those people alive ever again.

By all rights, those were the thoughts that ought to be in his mind. Instead, the boy was pre-occupied with the butter.

It was the wafting scent that struck him at first, a rich and buttery aroma that warmed his body with each breath. As he strolled into the theater lobby, Charlie could see the aroma originated from a semi-stocked popcorn machine that was aglow with its golden brown contents. The walls were lined with lit up boxes that contained a variety of movie posters, a selection from every genre that would appeal to even the pickiest movie critic. Brass stanchions were set and joined with velvet, sectioning where patrons were to queue in front of the now dark and gated ticket booths. Despite the lavish space of the cinema lobby, he was feeling taken by a bout of claustrophobia, making each breath as labored and difficult as the next. In stark contrast with the luxurious décor of the Jewel Theater, a rack of metal lockers had been unceremoniously set alongside one wall of the lobby, effectively ruining any opulence that the atmosphere hoped to create.

The reminding sign that stood next to the lockers was stark and inhuman. 'GRAB YOUR PACK, SAVE YOUR BACK!'

Nauseated beyond belief, Charlie made to retrieve his pack, pulling free the surprisingly bulky olive drab duffel bag from its unlocked sideboard. He wanted to leave this place as far behind as possible, but the sheer necessity of it set him about looking through his pack. Reaching in and pulling out his assigned weapon, Charlie grimaced. He couldn't tell an automatic from a semi, but Charlie knew full well a gun when he saw it.

Sleek and easily dwarved by the sheer size of his fist, the polymer gun was almost toy-like if it hadn't been fully loaded with ten very real and very deadly bullets in its magazine. He identified a small depression in front of the trigger that was probably the safety, and flicked it.

"Ariel..." He whirled around, but there was no guarantee that she'd be released soon. He hadn't been able to catch her designation, but she was at least a full row behind him. If he waited any longer in front of the theater, he was liable to run square into other contestants, some of which might turn out to be players. It nauseated Charlie to learn that any of his classmates could justify playing the game, but she wasn't completely wrong. It was human nature. Rape, murder, and plunder, all concepts invented and taken up by humans. What was to say his classmates wouldn't devolve into savages and barbarians?

But violence wasn't the sole human construct. Loyalty. Friendship. Love. There was so much more than self preservation and betrayal that the human spirit was capable of. And Charlie was determined to see it through.

Quite simply put, he had it bad for one Ariel Martinez.

The thought of losing the girl sent a chill up his spine. Having played his cards close to his heart all along, Charlie wasn't sure where he stood with her. They'd share a night together and remained on friendly terms, but did she see him as just another notch on the bedpost? Or was he something more? On his end at least, she was a lot more than just another lay. Chalk it up to love, chalk it up to infatuation, chalk it up to some feeling or other on that tenuous scale, but Charlie Herald was one hundred percent, irreversibly, abso-frigging-lutely smitten by Ariel.

There were those who questioned his sanity in his dogged pursuit of the girl. After all, Haven's Mill had no shortage of girls who were easily twice as pretty. Heather was definitely pretty, and an incredibly nice person by all accounts. Liz had intelligence in spades to match her exquisite looks, even if she belonged to a world of her own. On an objective basis, Rosalyn, Cheryl, Blair, Kate, and Helena were all incomparably attractive, but their personalities more than compensated for the fact that they were little more than vapid, heartless bitches in the disguise of human girls. Not really Cheryl, and Kate less so, but Rosalyn, Blair, and Helena, those three were quite probably queens of the mean if such a nation did exist. As for the other girls, well, Maria was cute in an unconventional sort of way, but then again, he never really got to know the girl, had he?

Ariel, she was different. She had a boyish charm to her brusqueness, as capable of cursing up a storm or going down in a brawl as any of the boys were. She was unabashedly appreciative of the things she liked, and undauntedly critical of the things she didn't. Outspoken to a flaw (politically or otherwise), she had found herself on the receiving end of the cheerleaders' wrath on more than one occasion, and though she never walked away without scratches, she never let the absurdity of it drag her down. She was just as likely to tell you to your face if she fancied shagging you or if she thought you were a douche, and Charlie liked that honesty in her.

And she had greater spirit than anyone he had known. The constant barrage of insults and disparaging remarks from ignorant girls or jealous girls could never find a grip on Ariel's skin, instead rolling off like moss-covered pebbles.

If there was one person he was sure would emerge from this Battle Royale unscathed, it was Ariel.

It wouldn't be easy. In a tournament as inherently twisted as Battle Royale, that much was to be anticipated. He had a concept that it'd bring out the absolute worst of the human psyche, converting the kindest of god-fearing men into savage, selfish monsters. There was no assurance that Ariel would be the same lovable girl he knew if he found her. Hell, there was no assurance that he'd retain any part of his sanity. _But damn it, you just got to try, don't you?_

Despite an uncanny affinity for staged TV wrestling, he liked to think of himself as a pacifist at heart. Born to love and be loved, not to fight. Terrorizing other people wasn't his game. Dealing out pain wasn't his game. Battle Royale wasn't his fucking game. No way, not a chance. He wouldn't do it. Try as he might to protect Ariel from the throng of lurking players out there (of which more than a few were bound to be his former friends), he wouldn't fight. He could convincingly scare them off, maybe, but he wouldn't willingly hurt. Self defense, that was a gray area, yeah, no, maybe.

Charlie hadn't thought of it as a dilemma when he walked in on the punk who tried to mug his older sister Sara at the gas station where she worked. The incident stood out as the sole recollection (if it could be called that) of any time he'd resorted to an act of violence. It was completely out of line with whom he was – he simply saw red and wrestled the shiv-wielding teenager to the floor tiles, throwing punches in every which way as Sara screamed her head off. Packets of nachos, soda, condoms and all sorts of merchandise flew off the shelves as the two muscular boys tossed each other around, while Sara stood paralyzed. Fat lot of good it had done him in the end too. The guy had gotten away (Charlie didn't even catch a good enough look at his face, he looked about high school age and could've been someone he knew), but not before getting a decent dig at his face. Charlie had to get six stitches on his cheek, where his face had nearly been slashed open. He'd been chewed out by seemingly everyone but Sara for doing something so moronic.

Averse to the very concept of aggression as he was, Charlie was astounded that the remorse he anticipated had never come. He didn't like that he had to do what he did, but no part of his psyche would argue for an alternate course of action. He had been trying to protect his sister, and so he jumped into action, simple as that.

Was it naïve to think that he could avoid bloodshed in his time in the Battle Royale? Perhaps. He certainly didn't intend on hurting anyone, much less killing someone, but if the scenario necessitated action, well... Time would tell.

Hearing the rhythmic beat of footsteps that echoed from behind him (and not aware that the next contestant was headed for a different exit point altogether), Charlie knew he had to flee soon. Ariel was his priority, but was it worth protruding his bare neck on the guillotine? There was no reason to dally, especially since he had no intention of fighting anyone needlessly. If he was attacked, he would run. If he was aggravated to the point of no return... well, then they would get what was coming to them, wouldn't they? All matters aside, if there was ever a time and place for playing Romeo, it was yet and elsewhere. _You'll find her, or she'll come to you. True love always prevails, you see._

"I don't want to die," Charlie spoke loudly, unmindful of who might hear him. "But I'll find you before anything happens to you, Ariel. I'll protect you from all that's out there, I promise you." The magnitude of the feat was dizzying, but Charlie was confident he could take it on.

Saddling his pack with his gun in hand, Charlie sprinted towards the bright lights of the city with great speed. Had he not promptly tripped and set off a round through his jaw, he probably would have seemed a lot more convincing.

* * *

Now that she was out in the open, she was beginning to feel the confidence permeate her entire body despite the never-ending layers of cascading rain. The gunshot that shook the entire town had scared her mightily as she bounded from the cinema hall, but already Rosalyn felt things were once more falling into their deserving place. You see, the thing was that Rosalyn Cruz (designation: G8) did not intend on being unprepared. Her quick mind was what scored her a record-shattering stint as co-captain of the cheerleading squad, and the same thing would get her out of this jam. The collar around her neck was an obstacle. So were the other players, but she had a way to deal with things. If it came down to it, Rosalyn had enough spice in her to handle anyone who came looking for trouble.

But for her to do that, she needed her friends. There was safety in numbers, and with multiple heads and weapons, they might be able to figure something out. What they would do after that was another matter entirely. Although Rosalyn was inclined to play the game, she had an inkling that kind-hearted Cheryl Lopez (designation: G14) would disagree emphatically. Still, it was a moot point. The woman said each of them had a cell phone, so there was that. She'd call the girls as soon as she found safety.

She would call them, and they would come. After all, what she said always went. She was the one who took charge. Her word was the law of Haven's Mill, backed by the gifts that genetics and puberty had bestowed upon her. A fierce Latina with lean muscles from cheerleading, she was unbelievably gorgeous and curvaceous at the same time. With long, spiraling brown hair that framed her regal features, Rosalyn was the type of girl that everybody wanted but would never have the guts to approach. That was the same for all of her closest friends, actually, all of them were drop dead gorgeous in their own ways. In reality they were probably only a little prettier than most girls, but with the extraordinary self-esteem and confidence that they had, well, in their minds that made them beauty queens. When Rosalyn and her crew took up the positions of head bitches in school, well, hardly anybody had the mind to protest. They all knew what she was capable of.

Back in the cinema hall, Rosalyn had been quick to notice that not all of them were in the game. Jennifer, Kara, Meghan, they were all absent. They were probably sitting in their living rooms, stuffing ice cream down their throats as they laughed at the BR reruns on TV, wondering when they would finally see Rosalyn fall. Fake bitches.

On the other hand, Blair Jennings (designation: G11) was someone she was genuinely thankful for. Of everybody in the game, Blair was without a doubt her single greatest ally and BFF. Inseparable from an early age, the girls had stuck through thick and thin. They went to school together, shopped at the same places, got their first periods at the same time, even lost their virginities to the same guy. Despite how close they were, the two girls were striking in vastly different styles. Blair could only be described as a tomboy. With an incredibly fit body and spiked platinum blonde hair that she would never admit was out of a bottle, Blair got her fair share of appreciative looks even if she threatened to crack the heads of guys who tried to steal a glance at her.

Then there was Stella Corinthos (designation: G8). Not a bad cheerleader by any means, in fact the blonde girl had always carried herself with an unique grace that no other girl could emulate. Still, there was something about Stella that kept her distant. She was part of the squad, but she was never part of the girls. Then again, she had that hottie boyfriend of hers, so what use did she have for other girls? Shallow bitch.

Kate Breckenridge (designation: G3) was also in the game. In a manner of speaking, Rosalyn had never considered Kate one of her friends. She wasn't bad looking, but 'handsome' was a more fitting description than 'hot'. She wasn't dumb like Cheryl (she loved Cheryl like a sister, but honestly that girl was dumb as a sparrow's fart). She was a bit of a follower, and would do whatever the other girls told her to do. Stay here, get us some drinks, shut up so you don't scare off our guys, perfect.

She'd already left, rather early in the contestant pool in fact. Still, considering how much the girl idolized her and Blair and Cheryl, it might not be a bad idea getting her to team up.

The only problem she foresaw was Helena Yang (designation: G25).

Like them, she was a cheerleader. Unlike them, she hadn't earned the title the proper way, via tryouts and hard work and sheer popularity. Affirmative action, that was the only reason a ham-fisted chipmunk like Helena could get on the squad. To fill the yellow quota, and probably the freak quota too. She was a piss poor cheerleader, and if it were up to her, Rosalyn would have kicked her sorry ass off the squad years ago. She was different. She was mean, she was manipulative, she had no grace, hell, Helena didn't even like any of the girls on the squad! Having been an observer to each and every of Helena's clashes with countless girls, she could only marvel at how capable of an actress she was. Really, it was incredibly freaky, that Rosalyn could never really tell if the girl was genuine in her vendetta against the prettier girls, or if she was simply that manipulative. If this was the story of her life, Helena was the villainess. Girls who wronged her found their lockers broken into. Their possessions slashed up. Cars keyed. Tires slashed. The girl was danger, and Rosalyn did not appreciate that.

Still, she was here. As much as Rosalyn couldn't stand that ridiculous voice of hers, she was someone Rosalyn knew, and that in itself could be an asset. She could play nice and make amends. It could mean an extra pair of hands. It could mean one more set of watchful eyes. In the event that push came to shove, it could be the difference in numbers that would afford them survival.

But could she really trust Helena?

She'd have to see where the roads would lead her. Seventy-two hours, not a long time by any means, but enough time to get her bearings a little clearer before she went and did anything stupid. No, playing stupid, that was always Cheryl's trademark, wasn't it? Play the game or not, Rosalyn knew one thing above all else. She didn't want to die, but if she was not to survive the game, she'd want either Blair or Cheryl to. Chances are it wouldn't be Cheryl, seeing how the girl couldn't fight her way out of a two-year-old condom. She'd sooner blow her brains out by accident than beat anyone to the crown.

Blair would be a formidable ally, and an even more formidable opponent. Physically, she was one of the strongest girls she knew, probably moreso than Rosalyn herself. Much as she didn't want to die, losing to Blair was just about an almost, nearly, practically, but not quite acceptable outcome.

Helena.

No way. Rosalyn wouldn't even entertain the idea of losing to that evil bitch. Helena was trouble, she knew that much. She was a weed, and what did her mother always say about weeds? Rip them out of the soil before they could take root. Kill them before they spoil the garden. Cheryl would certainly object though. Rosalyn regarded her options. Her cell phone in one hand, its screen aglow with her friends' contacts; her weapon in the other, not a sickle, just a three-foot wooden staff, but still as effective at taking out bad weeds. The decision wasn't easy, nor did she expect it to be so. She could call together her best allies, hopefully ride out the game to the bitter end. And on the other side of the coin...

If things had gone any other way, perhaps she'd have paid more thought to the idea. Perhaps she'd hunt down Helena and slay the girl before she could bring about the destruction of her group. But the sudden appearance of all one-hundred-and-five soaking wet pounds of Cheryl Lopez knocked the air out of Rosalyn's lungs when she throttled her to the ground, smothering the girl with long, blonde hair and a powerful hug.

"JESUS CHRIST, ROSALYN! I FOUND YOU I FOUND YOU!" Cheryl shrieked, though maybe only half of her words were within the limits of human pitch. "I was so scared, they said I had to kill, I tried to call you, I ran and fell and then I dropped my phone, Jesus Christ!"

"Cheryl!" Rosalyn practically had to fight off the girl to gain the breach to speak with her barest breath. "Is that really you? I'm not hallucinating, am I?"

"YES YES YES IT'S ME! JESUS, I was so scared without you!" At that, Cheryl went silent, though not out of any conscious effort to restrain herself. Instead, her vigor had transformed into largely silent sobs that escaped her tall frame in laborious gasps. Try as she might to speak, the heaving of her chest kept any words from forming fully. In her hands, Cheryl wrung a heavy metal bludgeon that had been her weapon, only on closer look Rosalyn could see it was no bludgeon, but an actual shotgun. _Holy shit, Cher, you really won the Battle Royale lottery with that one._

In lieu of speech, Rosalyn simply held her friend close, pressing the tall blonde's head to her shoulder. "I'm so, so glad you're safe."

Finally, after an eternity: "Are you alone?" Clear pebbles of tears tracked down her cheeks, Cheryl garnered the clarity of mind to ask. "Blair, Meaghan, Jenny, Stella, Kate, Kara, Esther, Helena, Jasmine. The others, they're here too, aren't they?"

It took her a moment to understand. "No, Cheryl, they're not here. At least, I haven't seen them," Rosalyn said, smarting at the injurious look that came over Cheryl's once innocent face. "Then again, only some of them are in the game. A lot of them are safe."

The fate of her luckier girls didn't mean anything to Rosalyn, but evidently Cheryl found plenty of relief in that knowledge. "Oh, thank god. They're safe at least." She clutched her hands to her bosom, cradling a brass pendant for comfort. It didn't do a thing to the heartbroken look on her face, but it did regulate her sorrowful gasps. "I was so scared, I didn't see anybody else in there. Who else is in the game?"

"You, me, Blair," she counted off her fingers, "Kate, Stella... and Helena."

"We have to find them," Cheryl shot out with surprising clarity. "I'm sure they're as scared as we are, only I'm not scared any more now that you're with me. We need to gather the other girls and keep everybody together. Strength in numbers."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? Some of those girls... they may be dangerous." There was something that bled through a veil of concern, but if Cheryl noticed it, she ignored it entirely.

"I'm sure." Cheryl nodded. "You found me when I needed to be found."

Technically, Rosalyn hadn't found Cheryl so much as the girl had appeared out of thin air, but the glow that lit her friend's face was enough to convince Rosalyn to let it slide. Rosalyn had never prided herself as a sentimental girl, but there was a part of her that found resonance in what Cheryl had said. The sight of one of her good friends did bring a sense of rationality to things. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea to keep her friends close... and her enemies closer. Pulling out a cell phone from her pack, the girl opened up her contact list.

"Let's do it," Rosalyn said with a forced smile. "Let's stay together."

* * *

Ariel Martinez (designation: G15) made her twisted way down the streets. At this point, she wasn't even sure if the wetness on her face was rainwater or tears. Her world had become a complete daze. After she had been released from her restraints, Ariel had taken to the game in a wild, abandoned run. The street lights and storefronts went by like a revolving print lantern that she noticed only by the barest glimpses. She only knew that she had to get as far away as possible, lest she stay too long at the starting point and be taken out early by an opportunistic player. Her only solace was that somehow she had the presence of mind to retrieve her pack, and with it, her only chance at survival. Food and water, supplies, medicines... and her weapon.

"I don't want to kill," Ariel muttered as she slapped the despair from her cheeks. "But I don't want to die either."

The woman had said so herself. Not in so many words, but the gist of it was identical: Kill or be killed. It wasn't as if she had a choice... From the moment her name had been drafted in the list, Ariel had no choice. It was kill or be killed.

This was all new to her. Though many expected a girl of loose morals to be freely unconcerned with killing, Ariel couldn't say that of herself in good conscience. She'd never killed even an animal before. Okay, that wasn't completely true. She had squished flies and spiders. But she had never killed anything warm-blooded before, much less a human being. She wasn't enthused to start killing now, but the circumstances of the game left her little choice. If she wanted to have a chance at living, she had to toughen up and do it. Kill or be killed. God damn those four fucking words.

Running quickly past the streets of Grimm, Ariel caught her ankle on something heavy.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She'd been too occupied in her thoughts to watch her feet, and paid the price for it. Ariel flipped around, nursing her jaw where it had clocked heavily on the solid ground as she fell. Thoughts did nothing to help her. These thoughts could only distract her as she sought safety. She just needed to find a place to catch her breath and change out of her wet clothes. Kicking away the heavy log that she had tripped over, Ariel readied to continue on her way.

Instead, her sight lingered for a moment too long.

Ariel prided herself that she hadn't screamed. She had seen the horror movies, she had a friend who was a mastermind with fake gore and prosthetics, hell, she had even spent some time at the animal shelter in sophomore year, where she'd seen dozens of injured animals who were practically roadkill by the time they had been brought to attention of the resident vet. So really, the sight of a seemingly dead body with shouldn't have been anything to scream over. It was bad, but not as bad as it should have been. She did feel nauseous, but then again she had felt like vomiting for some time. There were worse things she had seen, Ariel thought with a bit of morbid cheek, between the legs of a couple guys around town.

Getting up with a bit of difficulty, the girl looked to the body she had come across. By the looks of it, it was a stocky boy with red hair. His pack lay haphazardly by his side, where it had fallen at random. His face was semi-obscured in the way he had fallen. With a bit of morbid curiosity, Ariel crept closer. The boy seemed familiar, she was certain she had seen him around. Odds were that they had probably fooled around too, though Ariel found it hard to place him. She gripped his shoulders, putting in every bit of muscle in her petite body to flip him over. With a splash of stagnant water, the boy's startlingly calm face came into sight.

Catching a quick gasp, Ariel practically leapt back.

It was _him_. The boy who had spoken, back in the briefing room. The boy he had seen around the halls of HMHS. To most, he was known as an athlete and an all around nice guy. Ariel knew him simply as a one-time hook up, and, well, what could have been something more at one time.

And now he was dead. Shot in the head, it seemed. What she had taken for a wayward thatch of red hair was in fact the exit wound that had blasted blood and bits of skull out the top of his head. A small red hole the size of a nickel was bored in the bottom of his chin, in stark contrast to the alabaster white of his skin.

Instead, she bent over double and purged her stomach of its acrid contents. It was long overdue, a natural instinct to the newfound horror that she had been placed in. At once, the full momentum of just how isolated she was struck Ariel like a freight train. Fifty people in the game, three hundred million in the states, and nearly all of them hell bent on making sure she'd die in this city square, perhaps to the same gunman that had taken the life of the only guy she was hoping to see before she died. It was all too much.

Her heart was still pounding, but the morbidity of her thoughts had forced the girl into action. She quickly robbed the boy's splayed hand of the gun it clutched, and the weight of his assigned pack joined hers on her tiny shoulders. The black gun was ugly, but it would serve its purpose well. Taking extra caution to flick the safety off, she stashed the gun.

"I'm sorry," Ariel said, simple, somber as she sealed Charlie's eyes.

In the wake of the first casualty of BR9, she fled to another scene. She didn't know what had happened to the boy. She didn't know who had shot him in the head. She didn't know it was the very gun in her hands that had ended his life, nor did she know this same instrument of death would come to save her life on more than one occasion. She didn't know that in his accidental death, Charlie had unknowingly passed on his weapon and thusly fulfilled his final wish.

All she knew was that she had to get the fuck out of there.

* * *

Before she became a contestant in the Battle Royale, Selena Diaz (designation: G9) never imagined what it would be like to be part of the game. Like the millions of American citizens who watched the game with religious fervor, she had paid no heed to the lives of the contenders of each game. It was simply something that everyone else did, and so she went along with it. At one point, she might have wondered what she would do if she were enlisted in a Battle Royale, but not being much of a fan of the game, she had dismissed the thought then and there.

The funny thing was, now that she was actually in a Battle Royale, she had no idea how to react. Fear and panic, despair, or anger, she had to be feeling something along those lines, right?

Instead, she just felt numb. It was like her entire soul had escaped from her body by her numb fingertips, leaving her as an empty shell of a girl. Nothing had meaning any more, everything that she had once held important was now purposeless. She should be terrified, she should be bawling, she should be fighting and running away, or doing something to stay alive, right? But she simply felt devoid of any reaction. It was all inevitable anyway, why should she bother to resist? She might as well let things happen.

Nothing made sense, nor did she want to find any sense in things. She was in the Battle Royale, big fucking deal. Yeah, she was going to die in short time, so what? There was no point in fighting it. What more in life could there be for her?

"We need to find him," Ryan said as he caught up to the tiny girl, minding not to knock her over with his stocky frame. Both of their assigned duffel bags were hanging from his shoulder, and the cowboy hat perched on his head seemed to keep most of the rain away from his eyes, though from shoulders down his clothes were soaked through all the same.

"Who?" she said.

"Jason," he said with a nod, "he's somewhere out there, isn't he? We need to find him soon."

"I guess," she said

"I can't even imagine what he's feeling right now," Ryan continued after a deep breath. "He's all alone, I don't think he'll trust any of the others we've seen. If we don't find him soon, he might do something stupid."

"Yeah," she said softly.

The faint outline of his face drifted into her thoughts, showing the etched features of a scholarly face with milk-white skin and freckles and chaotic red hair. It surfaced into her mind with decent ease, unsurprising as Jason Fletcher (designation: B6) had been her on-again-off-again boyfriend for the greater part of a decade.

It made sense at first. They met in Mr. Farber's remedial math class in middle school (so sue her, she was terrible at math even if she was an Asian) and became good friends when Jason asked her if she fancied a bite of pizza at Bellucci's afterwards. They enjoyed each other's company a reasonable amount, and neither were in a relationship when puberty hit, so it made sense that they got together. He wasn't what most girls would expect in a boyfriend, not at all like the boy band icons that she had feverishly admired in her childhood, but they always had chemistry together. He identified as a writer even if he never put together the focus to finishing a full-fledged novella, she was an avid reader of many of literature's greatest works. He had always found the human psyche to be a fascinating subject, she was simply the girl next door who sought to be understood by a sensitive soul. By all accounts, it was a match made in paradise. Even her parents had given way after their initial protests of wanting her to date someone more befitting, by which they meant someone who shared her Filipino heritage, not a ginger-haired, white-skinned boy coming from Florida of all places. Still, they came around to the idea eventually.

Things were good, for a time. Then everything fell apart.

Nobody could pinpoint what happened, but a slow friction had developed every time they got together, and sooner or later friction led to the formation of sparks. They argued over the littlest things, they clashed like their lives were on the line, they couldn't stand the mere sight of each other for days on end. Every quarrel ended with her swearing that she would never bring herself to his depths again, but then he'd apologize in some big romantic gesture that had her bowling over. And then the whole cycle would repeat itself. After half a dozen times, Selena recognized that to be a vicious cycle that she'd be better off without, but for so long she had been with Jason that she didn't know how to break it off.

And then there was Ryan Santos (designation: B20), who had known Jason since early childhood and was someone she came to know as a close friend. On more than one occasion, she had sought him out for a loyal shoulder to cry on and a kind word to alleviate the hurt. She was certain that he was Jason's friend and confidant in rather the same way. It was funny, she wouldn't have expected a curly-haired wrestler of all people to be so insightful, but Ryan... she hadn't known him for the longest time, but he was one of her closest friends all the same.

The one thing that she was genuinely grateful for was that she had run into Ryan maybe twenty minutes after she ran out into the city. It was raining hard, and coming into the game Selena was drenched to the skin. The cold sapped her strength, it drained her body's warmth and was probably the reason she felt so numb. She had thrown on the plastic poncho even though it did remarkably little to keep her from being soaked. Running down the streets with no real sense of direction, she stumbled across Ryan in a dark alley. She probably wouldn't have gone out of her way to look for him if the chance encounter didn't happen, but his presence was something that she was truly glad to have. There was just one problem...

"Are you sure we should stay out here?" Selena said with her thin brows creased in worry. "We don't even know where he is. I'm cold and wet, I just want to curl up somewhere in a dry bed."

"Me too, but we can't leave Jason alone." Ryan shook his head. "Let's just stick to the streets until we find him, okay?"

"I'm just, it's raining for god's sake," she said with an uncontrollable shiver. Holding what remained of her body heat in wrapped arms, Selena heaved a sigh. It was an excuse, yeah, but it wasn't completely out of nowhere. She was miserable, she just wanted to find a place to sleep away her last hours. She would even be content if Ryan would show her half the concern she wanted, but with things as they were her presence might as well be non-existent.

"I tried to call him, but he's not picking up." Ryan looked at the cell phone in his massive hands, the chunk of plastic and metal seemingly useless as it remained in hibernation. "Do you think he's alright? He could be injured."

"I'm sure he's fine," she said with some irritation.

"What if he isn't? Didn't you see everyone back there, there are dangerous people here. Guys like Blake, or Royce, or Jonathon, I mean, you don't know what kind of people they are, or what they're capable of. You heard the gunshot back there-"

"That's exactly why we shouldn't be walking out here defenseless!" Selena snapped out of nowhere, causing Ryan to startle. Looking to the girl and meeting her fiery, almost hateful gaze, gave Ryan greater cause to flinch than he had ever found from the girl.

"We're not completely defenseless, we have your gun," Ryan argued, but she wouldn't let him have it. She had something to say, and whether he liked it or not, she was going to let him hear it.

"Yeah, a gun that neither of us know how to use, that's real useful," Selena said as she stood with her hands on her hips, as though daring the boy to challenge her again. The fire in her eyes had become a mixture of fury and desperation, her shoulders shaking with not just the cold. "Look, I want to find Jason too, but we're not accomplishing anything right now. There are fifty of us here, Ryan, do you really think we'll find him like this? We're wet and we're lost and we're freaking miserable, I just think we should look out for ourselves first."

She was practically pleading, her voice on the edge of breaking as she spoke. "And who's to say Jason even wants to be with us? Maybe he thinks it's better to stay on his own. Maybe he doesn't even want to see us. You tried to call him, left him a dozen messages but he's still not answering, isn't that saying something?"

The animation left his eyes for a moment, and Selena recognized that she had struck a sore spot. Ryan hadn't considered the possibility that Jason didn't want to see them, and the anguish of that thought was etched all over his face. It was a freaking Battle Royale, hell, it was hard enough situation to be put in with your closest friends. And with all the history between the three of them... Selena had thrown out the comment in an attempt to dissuade Ryan from doing something stupid, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made.

That was the way things had been working for longer than they knew. He may not have known it or liked it, but Ryan was the glue holding the reluctant couple together. Every time they got back together after fighting over who was supposed to buy the movie tickets, it was Ryan who consoled them and brought them together. Time and again, he had taken on the role of peacemaker, and he had done a damn good job each time.

Except this time. Try as he might, he couldn't get Jason to respond to his messages. By the look of things, nor did he want to seek them out. And after the whole prom fiasco, it wasn't difficult to imagine that Jason wanted some alone time from them.

"Maybe you're right," Ryan said as he tilted his cowboy hat, letting its wide brim conceal his sea green eyes. "I don't want to leave him out there to fend for himself, but getting out of sight isn't a bad idea at all."

"Thank you," Selena replied with her first genuine smile in the game. Shelter, rest, and warmth, now those sounded like things she could definitely look forward to.

"But some place that's street level, okay? I want to stay on the lookout in case Jason happens to walk right past."

"Fine by me." She pointed to the quaint Café Arabica across the street, noting its dim interiors were concealed by brown-tinted windows. "How does there look? It looks warm and dry. The front windows are glass, but we can stay in the back, that way you can keep an eye out. If they still got drinks in there we can even make coffee."

"Looks good to me." His words were spoken aloud, but there was no emotion or intent behind them. A part of Selena recognized a cause for concern, but she decided she would take any victory where she found it.

"Come on, let's get inside, I'm positively dying for a white chocolate mocha." Selena walked up to the Café Arabica with a smile. The idea of dry clothes and a warm mug of coffee sounded really tempting, and so she flung open the door with great spirits. The odor of stale coffee and dried flowers greeted her nose.

There was a split moment when Selena wondered why her world became an explosion of white. It was then she realized that she was blinded by a flashlight in the hands of another person. Standing in the midst of pinewood tables and a motley array of chairs, was a red-haired boy of small, almost diminutive stature. The brightness was hurting Selena's eyes, but even so it was plain that the boy had been crying not long ago. He held the flashlight at his wrist, his other hand leveling a folding knife at the door. _No way, coincidences aren't supposed to be real, are they? Of all the buildings in this city..._

"Jason," Selena said in dim recognition.

The boy responded in a mixture of a yelp, a hiccup, and a tremor. "Selena!"

She froze in hesitance, not quite sure how to respond to the sudden greeting, but in short time Jason had rushed the distance between them and pulled her small frame into a tight embrace, the folding knife a forgotten clatter on the floor. Tears flowed onto her shoulder as she cradled Jason oddly, her body rocking back and forth with his light sobs. What he was trying to say was entirely muffled, but the fear and relief in his words were unspoken. Instead, she cradled her boyfriend with an awkward arm, doing her best to comfort him.

"Thank god, baby," Selena muttered as she pressed her head in the crook of Jason's shoulder. "I'm glad we found you."

The sharp sigh of relief from behind echoed the sentiments that she had spoken, but not that which she had felt. On some level, she was glad to have found an ally, and her boyfriend at that. Yet at the same time, Selena couldn't help but wonder what complications might arise in the future, and how easily they could have been avoided if she and Ryan had simply remained on their own.


	6. Hour 1: Out of Breath

**Cycle 9, Hour 1: Out of Breath**

**49 Students Remaining**

* * *

Phobia was not a concept that he could understand on an instinctual level. It wasn't real fear, no, that he could understand if not always admit to experiencing. It was the irrational kind of fear that baffled Riley Quentino (designation: B13). Time and again, he heard stories about how people could be driven to panic attacks in face of mundane situations. Fear of heights, fear of spiders, fear of needles, fear of thunder and lightning, none of all that made any sense to him. He could perhaps empathize if the objects they feared were life-threatening on any level, but that wasn't the case. You don't see people with terrorism-phobia or cardiac-arrest-phobia. People were always the most afraid of the things that matter the least.

Like water.

Like the dark.

Like heights.

Standing in face of a combination of all three, Riley could feel no trace of fear at all. Given that fear had mostly been an alien phenomenon to the boy since he could remember, that was hardly surprising. He didn't know what the clinical term was. Psychopath? Sociopath? Riley was willing to bet a good number of psychologists would characterize him as such. So he had never experienced fear. That didn't mean there was anything wrong with him.

Battle Royale. Now that was something that people ought to be genuinely afraid of. That was the way it was supposed to work, at least. It was supposed to put fear in people's hearts, make them second guess their friends and allies. Keep them crippled with fear, too afraid of retribution to rise up and rebel. That was how the Great Republic of East Asia worked. The power of fear, it was that simple. But oh no, the great United States of America had to bastardize everything as always.

Instead, it was now a game. Instead of fifty times a year, it was now a seasonal event. Instead of a military experiment, it was advertised as a televised event on pay-per-view channels with live Internet feeds. Instead of something to fear, Battle Royale became a regular show to look forward to on TV. Everybody talked about the games, the contestants, and the kills.

People were never afraid of the things that matter the most.

The rain swept down from overhead, reducing much of the visibility that the night hadn't taken away already. Standing on the edge of one of the highways that crossed the river, Riley looked down into the watery expanse that stretched on below him. The surface of the river was a dark turmoil, swirling and frothing with the millions of raindrops that pummeled it without relent. The murky depths concealed what was certain to be treacherous rapids and currents. The night, the river, everything was jet black. The only lights that he could see were the few buildings lit up by people fearless enough to enter them, and the reflected lights that wavered on the river's surface.

Holding a deep breath, Riley leapt from the overpass and traced a perfect arc into the water.

It felt like he had struck a concrete wall headfirst, albeit a rather crumbly wall, and entered a world without gravity. His skin stung with the force of impact at first – then immediately, the paralyzing coldness gripped him from all around. He suppressed the urge to gasp for air, knowing that he would find nothing but a lungful of water. His ears were ringing still, like a grenade had gone off at the exact moment he hit the water. Darkness embraced him, whispering in his ears to surrender, to let the freezing water sap his strength, to curl into the fetal position and sink to the bottom of the river, where years upon years of garbage and industrial debris had accumulated.

Kicking at the water with his powerful legs, Riley forced himself to swim upwards. The river surface gave way as his head popped into the night air. Riley took one breath in and let his lungs relish the fresh air. Raindrops dotted his face, shoulders, arms, any part of his body that wasn't completely submerged. The river water webbed on his skin, leaving a slightly oily residue. Drawing in another breath that felt as chilly as the water enveloping him, Riley grinned with exhilaration. His heart was racing at a breakneck speed to pump hot blood to his extremities, at the same time saturating the rest of his body with a rush of endorphins.

He had never felt more alive.

* * *

Richie Kowalski (designation: B10) was a lot of things to the people who knew him, but hardly any of them would call him a fighter. Given that the boy was five foot six and weighed perhaps a hundred and ten pounds sopping wet, he wasn't in any physical shape to take on some of the strongest fighters in his class. He was intelligent, but wits could only take you so far in the game. There was also the inconvenient fact that his asthma would undoubtedly make his time in the game a hell of a lot more difficult than it was absolutely necessary. All in all, Richie was certain he'd meet an incredibly early end in the game if it weren't for his best friend.

"You still hanging in there, buddy?" asked Nicholas Chau (designation: B3) as he slowed to walk alongside the boy. Handsome and athletic, he could outrun Richie with incredible ease if he chose to, but given that they had been best friends for what felt like a lot longer than four years, deserting the other boy was unthinkable. Instead, he simply walked by him while trying to hold his warmth inside his letterman jacket.

"I'm doing fine, you don't have to keep asking me that," Richie said in reply. "The fact that we're on the move instead of finding shelter is unnecessary in the first place. It's very kind of you, but in this game there's a lot of aspects to consider, many of which are more important than my temporal well-being."

The two boys were moving on foot despite the rain, wearing their ponchos and plastic boots in an attempt to stay relatively dry. While most other students would rather have stayed indoors, Nicholas and Richie were out and about for one simple reason – namely, Richie's asthma. Right out of the gate, he had an asthmatic attack triggered by the incredibly stressful situation that was Battle Royale. His airway had immediately seized up, trapping the air out of his lungs as he coughed and wheezed for breath. He had honestly thought he was going to expire then and there, when Nicholas came out of the bushes and held the shivering boy in his arms. It was a good thing that he had decided to wait for Richie at the entrance. Without him to alleviate the panic, Richie might not have survived the asthmatic attack.

Nicholas had proposed they find one of the drugstores in the playing field and acquire a lifesaving inhaler from there, and he went with it because, well, it was Nick and whatever he put forth always happened. Now that he had mentally adapted to the game somewhat, Richie was beginning to have second thoughts. They really ought to be scoping out a hideout, not traveling half the city in heavy rain to look for an inhaler that for all they know might not even be there.

"Dude, come on," Nicholas shot back.

"Pardon me for not wanting my best friend to be a sitting duck whenever I start breaking a sweat," Richie sulked.

"And normally I'd agree with you, as normal as a Battle freaking Royale can be at least! But you're not just 'breaking a sweat', Rich, you're suffocating! You know we're probably going to be facing up against some of the meanest sons of bitches who'll be trying their damnedest to kill us all. I'd rather not have you save them the trouble because of a closed airway. That is why we're doing this right now, because damn it Rich, I need you to stay alive!"

Nicholas raised his voice as he said the last part of the sentence, something he seemed to regret as he suddenly looked uneasy. At least he seemed to find reassurance in the Seidel MP-50 submachine gun by his side, even if he couldn't quite learn how to fire it yet. On the other hand, Richie's weapon was a pitiful pair of Audi MDR-7065 headphones. Even in a supposedly random assignation, he didn't have the providence to receive something actually useful, go figure.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," Nicholas added in a hurried, low tone, "but we're gonna be okay. Trust me, alright? We'll get out of this thing."

Richie had reverted to his withdrawn and sullen state, but even so he said, "I don't see how that's remotely possible... but I really hope so, Nick."

"You'll see, Rich. We'll stay together, we'll scare off anybody else we see. Nobody will be stupid enough to charge us, not when we've got a gun. We can stay at the drugstore, give ourselves some time to calm down, then figure something out. You trust me, and we'll both be okay, I swear."

Noting the other boy's tendency to ramble when he had a lot on his mind, Richie bit his lip and said nothing. He knew that more than likely Nicholas was just trying to prevent another recurrence of his asthmatic attack. The words did little to soothe his mind, but the fact that his best friend was constantly looking out for his best interests was more effective than any mood stabilizer. Sawyer and Finn had nothing on them.

There was just one thing on his mind.

Nicholas looked nothing short of intense as he led the way with his gun by his side. He was Richie's rock, and he knew it, and on some level Richie was his rock too. They were best friends, inseparable since they got to know each other in freshman year. There was nobody else Richie would rather be with him, but at the same time there was nobody else Richie wanted to be as far away from this game as possible. It killed him that they were both in this game to begin with, but add that to the fact that neither of them might survive...

"You doing okay there?" Nicholas inquired as he noticed the other boy slow down.

Richie took a moment to force himself to still, using all his might to stop his throat muscles from clenching. After a longer pause than either of them was comfortable with, he replied, "I am... I'm fine. Stop asking me if I'm okay. You should have more important things on your mind. Getting us there, for instance."

"Sorry," Nicholas said with a grimace as he activated the map on his PDA, the screen lighting up in the dark. "If any of my map-reading skills is still somewhere in the part of my brain where the scouts drilled them in, I'd say we're almost there anyway. Crossed the bridge, then four blocks eastbound along the riverfront, turn the corner before the diner-"

"_After_ the 8th Street Diner." The words were said not as an amendment, but as a reminder. Though he was still puffing like a lung had been punctured, Richie's eyes held a definite twinkle. "North, east, then north down Poplar Street. Past The Bob Cut salon on the left, a Dusk-to-Dawn Mart on the right, and roughly three blocks after the mart is the Bonita Express Photo and Pharmacy."

"Show off." Nicholas made a face. "Even in life or death, you still have to lord that photographic memory over me, huh?"

"_Eidetic_ memory, and yes, I do."

"You know I hate a smart ass, Rich," he said in good nature. "About as much as I hate a know-it-all."

His words were not unkind, and even managed to get his best friend to smile in kind. Truth be told, the two boys had often engaged in and enjoyed their own sort of ribbing. As both boys were exceptionally intelligent even when compared to the best of their peers (well, Richie mostly, Nicholas reckoned he was only regular smart), the topic of ridicule naturally revolved around Richie's tendency to over-analyze and Nicholas's, well, as Nick had always thought of himself as sort of a jackass, any topic was fair game really.

"Oh, yeah, I'm the know-it-all," Richie said with a little smirk, "and what does that make the man who is proudly responsible for the Ellie Fruit Company's longest streak of consecutive bar trivia champions?"

Nicholas chuckled. "That makes me eligible for free root beers from Ellie's sixteen weeks and still counting. And probably a royal asshole to anybody who's visited Ellie's on trivia night in that timeframe and witnessed my impeccable mind at work."

"Pardon my memory, but what was that about not liking mules of the intellectual kind?" Richie had taken on a beatific smile, though his tone suggested it was as much affected as it was in jest.

"Precisely what I said, smart ass," Nicholas said with a laugh, a trace of his surfer dude persona bleeding into his otherwise non-existent accent.

Richie folded his arms and simply let a smile cross his face. It felt good to smile, he hadn't done that for a very long time. It was nice to know that he could find something amusing in even a Battle Ro-

Battle Royale. They were in a freaking Battle Royale. Either him or Nick, or more likely both, would die over the course of the next three days. Only less than that, because the hours have already started ticking. The reality of it slugged Richie like a bully's fist, causing him to double over and nearly throw up. Concerned that Richie was experiencing the beginnings of another asthmatic attack, Nicholas came to his side and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He had a hunch what Rich was thinking, but not wanting to vocalize it, he simply settled for the dreaded question, "You're alright still, Rich?"

This time, Richie didn't answer.

Capping a soothing hand on his best friend's back, Nicholas spoke quickly, "Look, we'll be there soon, okay? I can see the place already, it's a pharmacy, it'll have your meds, your inhaler, it's safe, it'll be alright, I swear."

"No, it won't be alright," Richie said in a sudden whoosh.

"Alright, look, you're right, things aren't okay and," Nicholas said, and then continued, "to be honest I don't think things will ever be okay again. But just because we're as good as dead doesn't mean I'm ready to die yet. It doesn't mean I'm ready to lose my fucking best friend. There's a lot going on in my mind right now, but we need to take things one at a time, I think. Rich, you know it's impossible to predict everything, we can't plan for every fucking scenario that might happen, or we'd go insane with paranoia. And that goes for both of us. Right now, anything else we do is letting the fear get to us, letting the game get to us."

He was right. He was always right, that was the way things were. Nick had that special way of his to get things to make sense. No matter what the circumstances were, he had that special way of getting Richie to remain level-headed, even in the worst places he could always bring him back to reality.

"And that would be bad. I understand what you mean," Richie said as he looked his best friend in the eyes. "I'm sorry for being a troubled mess. The game... it really scares me, I let it get to me. I should have been smart, but I let it get to me. I'm so sorry, it won't happen again."

"Don't worry about it. It happens to the best of us," Nicholas muttered as he looked away. "And you weren't a mess. You were just dealing with things in your own way. I was the one who acted like a jerk to his best friend."

"The game gets to us in different ways," Richie said simply.

"That it does, buddy. That it does," Nicholas said. "So are we good?"

"Of course."

"We're still best friends?" Nicholas said as he held up a hopeful fist.

Richie tried to resist, but he couldn't stop it, he had to roll his eyes. The fist bump, or as Nick and his friends insisted to refer to it as the 'bro fist', was one of the incredibly uncouth things that Nick had tried his hardest to rub off onto him. Supposedly it was a gesture of mutual respect, to show each other that they were still on fraternal terms after whatever episode of trouble they had gotten into. Richie had tried to defy it for the longest time. He would ignore the raised fist and got on with his day, all the while Nick would stubbornly keep his fist raised at elbow height for however long it took for Richie to cave. And despite the fact that his mother had brought him up on handshakes, despite his better sense of judgment, despite knowing exactly how much of a douche it made them seem like, he caved every single time.

It was just one of the many, many ways that Nick had managed to change him.

"Yeah, we're still best friends," Richie said with nothing short of absolute candor. Raising a fist of his own, he delivered a light punch to Nick's knuckles in an attempt to get the boy satisfied.

Mission accomplished, they turned their attention back to their destination up ahead. The boys stepped up to the besmirched store that used to serve a better part of the ghetto population's medical needs. The pharmacy was a dark establishment, but for a place to warm his extremities outside of the rain, it didn't seem all that bad. Staying indoors would attract attention, that much was true, but with enough shelves and posters lining the store's few windows, it didn't seem to be much of a problem. Besides, as Nicholas had said, who would want to attack them if they had a powerful gun? Except they really had to figure out how to get it to fire, and – hold on, just not, no, not the time yet. Take things one at a time.

The glass doors opened inwards. They stepped in as the automated lights activated one at a time and lit up the place. Shelves, counters, waiting area, racks of greeting cards and magazines, even more racks of boxes and pill bottles behind the counters. It looked just about like any other pharmacy, if said pharmacy had been abandoned some twenty years ago while all of its stock had been left to rot. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Here you go. Remember to keep this thing on you at all times," Nicholas said as he grabbed a boxed inhaler from one of the shelves. With a slight underhand, he tossed the medication at Richie, who caught it in scrambling hands.

"Thanks," he said in reply as he stripped the inhaler of its outer packaging.

"Told you we'd be fine," Nick replied with a cocky grin. "I know this isn't the ideal place, but I guess this is home for the next three days. Pity it's no penthouse, but we can make do, can't we?"

Richie couldn't help but smile. Yeah, take things one at a time, that seemed like a good idea. It wouldn't be easy by any stretch of the imagination, but it was going to be doable. He knew that odds were that they would both die in the three days to come, but even so he couldn't help but smile.

"Do not worry about it," Richie said as he stuffed the inhaler into his pocket. "Home has never been better."

* * *

Some would call him psychotic. Some would call him suicidal. More than a few online viewers would call him a dumbass, but at heart Riley considered himself a junkie of the adrenaline variety. There was nothing that could give him a better high than the feeling of a motorbike soaring off a ramp. That brief moment where it seemed he could slip off the leather seat and plummet to the ground, that was more euphoric than any drug in the world. He was addicted to that blend of brain chemicals released whenever he engaged in some sort of dangerous activity... something extreme that made him feel alive.

Catching a frigid breath, Riley prepared to sink back into the unfathomable depths. He had been treading water for some time now, allowing for his body to adapt to the freezing temperature. That allowed him to stay afloat, but he couldn't remain here forever. Those who knew Riley would say that he was prone to doing a lot of fearless acts for the hell of it, but Riley hadn't just stripped to his boxers and dived into icy water for no good reason.

If he still carried the electronic tablet from his bag, it would probably show a blip in between the two banks of the river, somewhere near the southern end of the battlefield. Paddling hard to stay afloat in the watery canal, Riley allowed the rippling currents to carry him downstream. It was difficult to see where he was heading in the dark, and the rainfall only served to further impair his visibility. Riley knew he had to be heading towards the borders of the arena, but he wondered if the river would simply carry him right out of the playing field.

A realistic image came into his mind. His limp, headless body was washed downstream by the torrents. Everything above his throat had been blasted clean off, leaving a slurry of blood and gore that stained the frothing water red. The blackened remnants of his collar was still looped around the stump of his neck, smoldering and crackling with electricity. Yeah, he wouldn't want that to happen.

It wasn't that he was afraid, fuck no, he wasn't scared that the river could engulf him in its watery maw. But swimming any farther to the south was suicidal. Keep doing that, and he'd be liable to set off his collar. This was as close as he could get to the point of no return.

He breathed in long and deep. Time to go off the deep end.

Dunking the top of his head down, he submerged himself and waddled as deep as he could go against the buoyancy of his lungs. The river's depths were so incredibly murky that he couldn't even see his own fingers with his hand outstretched. Riley wasn't scared, not a chance, no, but he was worried if he would find himself sucked out of the playing field. Without being able to tell where he was, that was a definite concern. He didn't know if the river carried him farther than he intended to go.

Death. Now that was probably the most rational fear of all. Death was the great unknown. Death was the only territory that human understanding could not even begin to conquer. Riley didn't fear death, but he had respect for it. The absolute worst thing to do in a Battle Royale was to disregard the possibility of dying.

People. Riley would be the first to admit that he didn't know a whole lot about reading people, but at the same time he knew the worst that people were capable of. Time and again he had seen guys beat the stuffing out of one another for no provocation, as soon as the rules had been lifted and they were free to commit any act. Then again, that was the whole point of a fight club. Just everyday people, guys you would see on the street, taking on each other in a no rules barred beat-down. Riley had been a participant in more than his fair share of fights, but he was willing to admit that a lot of a time, it was just an excuse for people to do what they would never have the guts to do in the real world.

How many of his classmates would give in to their desires? To assault, rob, murder, rape to their hearts' content? A lot of them, probably. The Battle Royale was the perfect scenario to act out, after all. No adults to look down on them. No cops to keep them in line. Nothing to hold them back.

It all came back to the fear.

Riley had been too caught up in his thoughts to notice until the world inverted around him. He had been suspended in nothing but murky water as far as he could see, when one of the underwater drafts snatched up the unaware boy and sucked him deeper than he could go, nearly to the bottom of the river. Twisting around, Riley caught sight of what looked like a circular passage set in a wall of concrete. The size of the pipeline would allow two, maybe three people to pass through with ease, if it hadn't been enclosed by a netting of wire mesh. Beyond the passageway was a mechanical fan, a trio of tremendous blades gyrating in perfect synchrony.

It wasn't just any treacherous current that had taken up the boy. Even as he struggled to still himself, he could sense that water from all around him rushed into the pipeline, propelled by the river's natural flow as well as the mechanical suction beyond.

Suddenly realizing he had been underwater for longer than he cared for, Riley prepared to make his way back. Paddling with his muscular arms, he tried to push himself off a solid surface, but the muddy slime accumulating at the river bed offered no traction. Nothing for him to propel himself off.

His eyes bulged as his lungs burned with oxygen deprivation. Kicking out wildly as one of his legs collided with the solid concrete, Riley tried in desperation to float back to the surface. It was impossible, he was too deep, he wouldn't get back in time...

A swath of water disintegrated as he shot up into the night air, his lungs gratefully sucking in all the air he could get. The muscles all over his body smarted with relief. Dirty water ran down his face and into his eyes. He wiped a wet slick of hair away from his forehead. The sharp pang in his chest ebbed away as he gasped for air, allowing the oxygen to saturate his veins. Each heartbeat was a muffled thud in his ears.

He had never felt more alive.


	7. Hour 2: Lover's Game

**Cycle 9, Hour 2: Lover's Game**

**49 Students Remaining**

* * *

The red-bricked warehouse was a derelict two-storey structure that overlooked the mud-spattered bank of the Holland River. The exterior of the building was webbed with rain-soaked grime, overlapping graffiti and the rectangular remnants of posters that had been plastered on and dissolved off its walls by the wash of rainwater. Its interior was in even worse shape, where sections of the concrete floors and brick walls had collapsed to erode holes in the structure and piles of rubbles beneath the openings. Each of the building's windows had been shattered and the brittle frames smashed away, allowing wind and freezing rain to waft freely into its rooms. Despite the undesirable exposure to the elements, the otherwise nondescript building was occupied by a pair of contenders who had sworn to withstand any trouble that was thrown in their way.

Shaun Pelletier and Rosita Morales (designations: B16 & G17) were the couple that occupied the room that was the least open to the elements. Neither expected to be chosen to take part in a Battle Royale, but coming into the game, they realized that they had to be thankful for the little details. That they could find this warehouse without being intercepted by anyone else was one, and the fact that they left consecutively and were reunited right away was another.

A large-framed athlete stacked with muscles honed from years of soccer and football, Shaun could not have posed a greater contrast to Rosita's diminutive frame. From behind his crown of golden hair towered high above Rosita's bright red mane, and given that both of their hair colors were rather prone to flaring in direct sunlight, on any given day their presence could be foretold by twin flashes of white and red light. Football team captain, class valedictorian, they did make a good pair together even if they were a bit of a mismatch.

Sitting with their backs to an interior wall and with Shaun's arms wrapped around Rosita's shoulders, the lovers tried desperately to think of anything but each other or the Battle Royale. It was a vain attempt to stay in denial, but they had a rather accurate feeling that denial was the only way to preserve their sanities.

"Deny all you want, but I know for a fact that every girl's got a dream wedding. What's yours like?" Shaun asked out of nowhere.

Rosita turned her head sideways in the cradle of Shaun's arms. Long strands of hair plastered to her rosy cheeks as she smiled in consideration. "I swore to never let anyone know this until the day has come, but I guess there's no harm in letting you know."

"As long as you don't hold me to the promise." Shaun smiled ruefully.

"Stars, I want to get married under the stars," Rosita said with green eyes that glazed over in fondness, her lips touched with a smile. "Dark night, no clouds, and plenty of stars. No friends, no family, no bridesmaids or groomsmen, just you and me. I'd be wearing this silk white gown, with flowers embroidered on the neckline, and you'd be in a tuxedo, the really handsome kind. We'd have a moonlit ceremony on the beach, nothing but clean, white sand and tall trees for miles, and the sound of sea waves in our ears. Doesn't matter what food or music there is, because there won't be anyone else to witness it. The moment will belong to only you and me."

"That sounds incredibly romantic." Shaun placed a soft kiss on Rosita's temple. "And if it were up to me, I'd let you have all that plus your dream honeymoon and seventy years of happiness and stability, even if it costs me an arm and a leg."

A faint discomfort came over Rosita's pointed features. She shifted from her cuddled position and sat up a bit straighter. "But it's all a moot point, isn't it? We're all going to die."

"Don't say that." His words came out harsher than he intended, and he hurried to soften his tone. "You don't know what will happen. Maybe they'll call the whole thing off."

"Fat chance of that happening," Rosita retorted with a grim smile. The quirk on her lips dissolved to become a grimace, and hot, bitter tears soon followed from the crinkled corners of her eyes. Her chest raised and fell with each sob, and every movement felt all too real as Shaun cradled the girl in his arms. "I don't want to die, Shaun."

"Nobody wants to die," Shaun said softly as Rosita raised her fingers to graze the side of his face, as though trying to preserve his deathly serious expression on her fingertips. "But we all do, sooner or later. It just happens that for a lot of us, it's sooner."

"But we're teenagers, this isn't fair, this isn't supposed to happen." Rosita rubbed away the stubborn tears with the back of her fists, though more trickled down her face to replace those that were dried. "Half of us aren't even legally adults yet. I haven't tasted my first beer yet. My mom... she promised to take me to her favorite bar once I turned twenty-one. My big sister said she'd take me as soon as I turned eighteen. We're innocent... How is any of this fair? How can they justify something like this?"

"It's not fair." Shaun nodded, his features darkened. "But it's the way it is. The war isn't fair. The way this country is run isn't fair. That the rich flourish while the poor suffer, that isn't fair either. None of all this is fair, least of all what's happening to us. It's senseless, all of this... and it's not just friends and lovers. The Russell twins, the cheerleaders are closer than any other team even if half of them are plain evil, and Nicholas and Richie are closer than any two guys can be. And us, they put people like us in this thing and expect us to kill each other. This is wrong. This is injustice, and there's no way to justify it."

"So why do people do it?" She looked into his ice blue eyes with candor. "The people who watch this for entertainment, they're screwed up in ways that we can't even begin to understand, but the... they call them the players. The people like us, who are part of the program, and they obey the voice that's telling them to kill their friends and classmates. What is it, are they evil or... why do they kill?"

Shaun looked as though he might be sick, though he met his girlfriend's gaze with an ironic smile. "I think they're scared. I don't think they're all that bad, I think maybe they're scared. And scared people... sometimes they do irrational things, like hurting other people."

An opportune bolt of lightning chose that moment to flash across the night skies, followed momentarily by a rumbling sound of thunder. Spooked into silence, Rosita held her breath for a few more seconds before realizing that there was no danger. Evidently her tears had also ceased as a result of the thunder blast, and she turned away darkly that her face remained shrouded in the shadows.

"I'm sorry, Shaun," she said with deep regret.

Tossing her head and letting her long, scarlet hair swing free, Rosita was quick on her feet and looking down at the prone Shaun. In spite of her petite frame, she towered over her boyfriend as she brandished the oriental sword that he had last seen in her pack, yet was somehow in her shaking hands now. Her stance showed neither determination nor fortitude, but something raw shone in her eyes, a sentiment he had seen her bear a thousand times but never so intensely.

It was fear.

"I don't want to die," she said, terrified but with no tears. "I don't want you to die either, but... they said I had no choice."

Raising the katana overhead and preparing to make a clumsy swing, she was taken off guard as Shaun made no efforts to resist or disarm her. Instead, he merely sat where they had been, hands spread open in a wordless appeal. He didn't need to say anything, the crystalline blue in his eyes did all the imploring that he needed. He was her boyfriend, her best friend, her Shaun... but in the Battle Royale, he was her competitor. Kill or be killed, they said.

Rosita clenched her eyes shut as the long blade descended. As metal carved into flesh, steaming blood spilled out and spattered the concrete floor with dark droplets.

* * *

The city lights shone down on his every step as Callum Merris (designation: B14) made his way around the town. The added visibility was definitely a bonus, but at the same time he couldn't help but feel a bit exposed. There were so many other contestants around town, and virtually no way of knowing if anybody was on his tracks. That was part of what scared Callum the most, that it was impossible to tell how far away from death he was at any given time. Any moment could be his last.

Callum ambled down the street in a daze as he held the duffel bag in his arms, with its strap wrapped loosely around his shoulder. His assigned pack didn't weigh a lot even with all of his provisions, but the burden was a lot heavier in his mind. He wasn't only bearing his food and water and clothing, he was also carrying an instrument of death. Hidden away in his duffel bag was a weapon that was meant to kill another person, and that was more responsibility than Callum was willing to hold.

He had left his pack untouched thus far, not wanting to open it and be confronted with a gun or a dagger. He wasn't prepared to face the fact that he was in a Battle Royale. The news had long since sunk in, but that didn't mean he was ready to accept it. It was a coping mechanism, pure and simple. If he didn't reach into his pack and withdraw his designated weapon, then maybe he could pretend he wasn't part of the game.

For a moment, he could imagine he was on the rural farmland back home. That was from a long time back, before his family's debts and property disputes had confiscated the home from them. It was still the perfect place to go to when he needed to get away, even if it was only a mental trip that took him there. If he closed his eyes and visualized hard enough, he could almost feel the scruffy grass beneath his bare heels. The aged and corroding farm barn was behind him, its walls peeling with brick red paint. Bales of stale hay lined the edges, wafting off the scent of dust and manure. Their goats whined from the meadows where they grazed. Warm sunlight casted down on him as he strolled up to one of the animals, patting the lazy creature on her back.

Opening the front door of his farm house, a stern-looking woman with slate gray hair wrought her lips into a snarl. "Your dinner's going down the drain if you don't get your butt in this house this very second!"

The scene dissolved away. Of all the things, it was the thought of his mother that destroyed his reverie and brought him back to the present. His mother was the woman who had raised him on a single hand ever since his father had been killed in the line of duty. An authoritarian woman who firmly believed in traditional conservative America, she had nothing but the utmost admiration for her husband's noble profession as a military man. Like any loving wife, she had been devastated when the uniformed officer showed up at the farmhouse out of nowhere, delivering the message that his father had been killed in action. He couldn't even remember how old he was when that happened.

Callum had an inkling that his mother must have seriously considered going into the army in her youth, because he knew no other woman who was as knowledgeable about the military as she was. From that point onwards, she took her parenting role to a whole new level.

She gifted him an air rifle on his fifth birthday, and then a second-hand pistol two years later. Instead of spending his weekends scrubbing the stables, she took him to the nearest gun range, where he would spend hours punching holes in a silhouette on paper. His summer holidays took place in a ten week basic combat training camp, where he and a dozen other boys were subject to a fitness regimen and hand-to-hand combat training. She harnessed him to trace his late father's footsteps, and for nearly a decade Callum had actually believed in all sincerity that was the path he was heading towards.

At some point in his life, he started making a life for himself outside of his parents' shadow. He made a few friends, none of them very close, but they introduced him to the idea of conflicting politics. Then he looked into the consequences of warfare and saw for himself all the lives and families that the president's wars had wrecked. He talked to the veterans who his mother introduced him to, the men and women whose nightmares were still haunted by the civilians they had killed on foreign soil. He witnessed the nation's law enforcement crack down on opposition when a local cluster of protestors got out of hand.

He couldn't imagine making a living out of destroying other people's lives. It wasn't for him.

Callum sighed. It wasn't that he meant to detract from the noble sacrifices that the men-at-arms had to make. But the way things were heading in this country, Callum saw nothing remotely noble about that. He wanted to be a protector of his country's people, not a pawn of the militant and fascist big wigs in control.

His mother didn't understand, of course. She had raised him to be a military man, not some weak-minded pansy who took their sacrifices for granted. His father made a promise to defend the nation from terrorist scum, and she'd be damned if she would allow her son to deface his legacy. They believed in the American constitution that kept their family safe for all those years. It was the armed forces that allowed him to grow up into the strapping young man that he was. It would be downright selfish of him to not expect to give anything back to the nation.

She didn't listen as he argued that the military in this country hadn't been a protector of its people for a very, very long time. Her decision – or the decision of his dead father – was final as always. She was going to send him through ROTC once he had graduated from high school, and that was it for him. He'd become another nameless recruit and end up in the last place he would want to be in.

If the Battle Royale hadn't come in the way, he might end up working his hardest to make another class of teenagers slaughter each other.

But that was neither here nor now. Whether he liked it or not, he was a contestant in the Battle Royale. From then and on, he had to make his own decisions. Play the game in hopes of going back home? There was no chance he would do that. It went against everything that he stood for. He wouldn't go on the offensive, but that didn't mean he was going to be a sitting duck. He knew there was always going to be a few people who played hard, and he didn't want to let one of the players claim him. He would rather lie in wait and blow up at the end than for that to happen.

It sent chills down his back to realize that more than a few of the teenagers in the city were out for his blood. He didn't know a lot of people in the game, and it was doubtful if he could find somebody to count on. After all, betrayal was just as common as murder in a Battle Royale.

Maybe it was time for him to deal with reality.

Coming to a stop in one of the city's many canopied alleys, Callum dropped his pack to the mercifully dry ground. It wasn't particularly heavy or bulging, which meant whatever his weapon was, it had to be one of the smaller objects. He hoped it would be a club or some sort of bludgeon, something easy to handle that he could use to fight off a hostile contestant. It wouldn't feel right, but it had to be done. With some luck, he wouldn't even have to use his weapon until the very end.

He unzipped his duffel bag and saw that it held all of his supplies, but he could see nothing that seemed like a weapon at first. Digging through his pack's contents, he took note of his food and water, mobile phone, watch, and flashlight. There was a neatly folded plastic poncho and a pair of rubber boots that he wish he had taken out before heading into the rain. The electronic tablet that held a full list of contestants and a map of the arena was also inside, and Callum made a mental note to check that out later. Tucked beneath a spare change of dry clothing, Callum finally found what he was looking for and took it out with some uncertainty. They told him that the weapons were supposed to be randomly distributed. Callum wasn't sure how much of that to believe, but if they were being entirely honest, the universe had a cruel sense of irony.

Looking at his designated weapon, Callum was surprised that he recognized it on sight. It was an object that he had wielded for many times before. He doubted it was the exact one that he had at home, probably just one of the millions of identical firearms that was manufactured and distributed to the men and women of the U.S. army. Clutched in his hand was an Enforcer 94 semi-automatic pistol.

"Looks just like my gun." He tried not to laugh, but the irony was too great to let go. So he couldn't escape his destiny. The Battle Royale would change nothing. All of it meant nothing.

All of the reasons he had refused to be part of the nation's tyranny. The government that put kids like him into the program, and the militia that supported the regime. He swore he wouldn't be a part of that system even if he had to run away, but even here in the Battle Royale, he couldn't escape from his father's legacy.

A sense of revulsion overtook him. This wasn't just a sidearm, it was a symbol of oppression. This was a weapon responsible for the deaths of thousands, probably millions of people around the country. There was no way he would wield this gun and use it to take away another person's life, not even in self defense. Nobody had the authority to do so… ever. He would rather die unarmed than have to take hold of this thing. He knew how to take down another person with efficiency. If the situation called for it, he could fight with his bare fists. If the other person was too much of a threat, he could run away. Anything was better than… that.

"I'm not gonna use it," Callum said with gritted teeth, "not ever."

He couldn't keep hold of it. If anything happened to him, the pistol might fall in the wrong hands. Anybody that looted or robbed him was bound to be playing the game. They would cherish the gun as a bringer of death. It was too dangerous to keep around him, even if he swore never to use it. There had to be some place he could discard the gun, let it be neglected and never come to harm anybody else.

With great and sudden strength, he flung the handgun to the side and let it plop across the gloomy street, landing with a distinct splash. He neither knew nor cared where it fell, as long as he made sure it wouldn't come into possession of the wrong person. Nobody would notice the dark, twisted metal on the side of the road, and even if they did... the gun was useless without its ammunition.

Already feeling ten times better now that he had disposed of the weapon, Callum ambled off down the street. He had no idea where to go, but the city housed a great number of hiding places. He had no idea what to do, but he could figure out what to do with the supplies in his pack. Take a look at the contestant list, figure out if he had any friends in the game. The map would also help in figuring out a place to hide out. He could work something out, he had to.

Callum continued down the rain-dimmed street, not knowing that a feminine figure had been watching him from behind. She deftly moved out of the alcove in the front of a desolate loan office. The sound of rainfall covered up the noise her stilettos made as she walked, keeping her existence a secret for now.

How typical of a _boy_ to not know when a girl was after him. Boys were just so stupid sometimes.

She crossed the street quickly on her high heels, finding where the pistol had fallen and stashing it in the waistband of her leather mini-skirt. Catching sight of the boy's silhouette fading in the rain, she set off after him. Good girls may get to heaven, but bad girls get to win.

* * *

Like far too many things in her life, it began with the desire to keep it simple. She wasn't the type to date and skate, but there was only so much drama that a girl could take before wanting to opt out altogether. Above all else, she just wanted her teenage years to fly swiftly by without so much as a hitch. Made the softball team at her freshman year, the National Honor Society as a sophomore, then vice student body president in her junior year, and finally homecoming queen in her senior. She accomplished all of it too, and for all the trouble she had gone through, she might as well have ribbon-wrapped it and delivered it to the Ivy League college admissions with a barber shop quartet.

The only thing that was she had not foreseen was Heath MacDougal (designation: B13), and she hadn't even been mad that he came into her life and threatened to make a mess of things. She certainly was pissed off now, but then again she was in a Battle Royale. Her senior year had turned out to be a lot of unexpected things, and that in itself was not expected.

Stella Corinthos (designation: G7) had not planned to fall in love with anyone, and on that front she failed miserably.

But she had never been known for dwelling on the past. In the life-after-death movie in which she would be portrayed by her future baby granddaughter Julia, then Fanning, Barrymore, and Streep in varying stages of her life, Stella would be known for her strength to move forward despite the terrible excreta that life tended to throw at her at every conceivable spot. Were it not for her outlook, she probably would have jammed the barrel of her Arcadia Magnum between her lips, said whatever prayers mattered on the off chance that there was an afterlife, then carpeted the room in a thin layer of gruel with her brain.

Only she had found a reason to live. Said reason was shooting guard of the Haven's Mill High School basketball team, self-admittedly did not mix well with diluted alcohol, and also knew oh so much about that secret sweet spot on the back of her neck.

She was being ridiculous, like she had been so prone to acting ever since they had visited that Dame of Creams as "what could evolve into something great" by his words. Teenage love rarely lasted long, if at all. Heath was a distraction. He was only someone with whom she'd experience the tantalizingly normal turmoil of being a teenager, and then she would be off to college with some experience in her belt, where she would meet her soul mate and well-meaning mentor and quirky but loyal confidant, then go on to craft bigger and better things at a newspaper with a name so renowned it would dictate and open all her future paths.

Heath was... oh, to hell with it. He was funny, he was smart, he was nice and respected her most of the time, he was popular and that always helped with life in general. He was also one of the, if not the singular most handsome guy in their year, and that was saying a lot considering they had fellas like Chau, Jones, and Santos who wouldn't look out of place in a men's catalog (though some would require a complete revision of their wardrobes). Sure, like all guys Heath had a tendency to take things a step too far, but he always apologized even if she wouldn't always forgive him.

But all of that meant nothing in the playing field. There was a ninety-eight percent chance that he wouldn't make it out alive anyway, and she did not even want to estimate what portion of that involved her playing a role in his death.

No. The only thing that mattered was Stella herself.

The rain was the problem here. It had to let up sooner or later, and though she was no meteorologist, Stella was willing to bet on sooner. In the mean time, she could figure things out. Things like how to operate the Arca Mag, which buildings in the city would make an inconspicuous hideout to eat and sleep in, and what she would do if she encountered someone familiar. If the faces were foreign to her, she'd hide and simultaneously point the gun at them and hopefully the threat of firing a gun would be enough to find herself alone again; if not, she'd have to open fire which was why reading the manual cover to cover was imperative. The difficult part was where her emotions came into play, and... it was something to figure out, and a sigh left her lips.

The boutique in the south-eastern corner of the playing field was ostentatious and carried a flamboyant catalog that Stella would rather die before putting on a single ascot. It was also mercifully dry. It would have to serve as her first hideout, even if it wasn't ideal. There was even a citrine loveseat at the back where she could even get a few hours' sleep if she thought she could risk it.

"Not holding out for any Mediterranean cuisine, but I hope there's at least something edible in there." The words were forced, and took two tries before her voice would stop cracking. Any hope that hearing her own words would put a stop to the surrealism was dashed as it left her feeling ridiculous like so many other things.

She could use a bite. That much was true at the very least, even if her stomach wasn't the driving factor. She needed to calm herself down, and the hot cocoa infusion would probably do the trick, as would the powdered milk or coffee... if she had any hot water in the small thermos that came with her rations. But it was pitifully empty. Instead, she sipped from one of the four bottles of mineral water, with none of the gratification that she had hoped for.

The only thought that could make her feel alive again was Heath.

She expected the thought as much as she expected to be ambushed by a chocolate-loving alien at Bellucci's. It all came back to him, didn't it? As much as she didn't plan to, as much as she didn't even want to, she was still heads over heels in love with that son of a bitch.

"Damn it."

* * *

Blood wasn't the only thing that spilled on the floor. Rosita's hot tears exploded out of the corners of her eyes, and she ignored them as the droplets spilled down her reddened cheeks and dotted the concrete at her feet. It burned on her skin with shame and betrayal, and she wouldn't have been surprised if they left hideous scars on her face, branding her as a deceitful lowlife.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." The litany came from her lips like clockwork, a nearly automatic creed that she muttered with her brows crinkled together, pressing her eyes into dark, tearful slits. She didn't have to look with her eyes to know what she had done. It was murder, there was no way to justify it, but they told her it was the only way to survive. A part of her mind tried to convince herself that this was merciful, an act of love to spare her lover from the horrors that would follow, but there was no conceivable way of justifying what she had done. She had killed Shaun...

To her surprise, a masculine voice answered her. "Rosita... don't do this."

In shock, Rosita opened her eyes and saw blood at the end of her blade. She had swung the katana in a wide, ungainly arc, but instead of burying the sharp end in his torso, the blade was wedged in between Shaun's massive hands, blood dripping from where the blade cruelly intersected his laced fingers. While it would have been simple to dodge the attack, he had caught the extended end of the katana with his bare hands.

"Shaun!" she exclaimed, trying to withdraw the blade on instinct. It slid through Shaun's fingers for the fraction of an inch before friction caught again, stilling the blade where it was lodged in his serrated flesh.

"You're better than this, Rosita. Don't buy into their lies." Shaun's eyes were flickering, but the glacial strength within was unmistakable. With each word he appeared to gain a little more strength, until he gripped the katana by its wickedly sharp blade and wrenched it to one side. Its wrapped handle snapped out of her fingers, and the long samurai's sword flew end over end to collide with a brick wall with a loud, metallic echo.

Disarmed before she even knew it, Rosita gasped. It seemed the resolve to fight had escaped her together with her weapon, and the red-haired girl scrambled on her knees to her wounded boyfriend.

"Shaun... oh my god, I'm so sorry! I did this to you!" Her long fingers wrapped around his palms, pressing into the frighteningly wide cut and feeling warm blood slip between her skin. All of a sudden it seemed blood was everywhere – on the floor, in their hands, on her face, in his hair – and Rosita was terrified. She didn't know what had driven her to do something so unthinkable, but the sight of blood had caused all sense to flee her.

Despite the blood that spilled out of the sharp wounds on his hands, Shaun was composed as ever, though a bleak color had tainted his usual confidence. "It's okay, Rosita. You were... scared. And scared people do things, that they don't mean to do. Doesn't mean they're bad people."

"I hurt you," Rosita said tearfully, gripping his hands tightly as though she could heal or at least transfer the wounds she inflicted back to herself if she willed it hard enough. "But they told us, I didn't want to hurt you but I don't want to die!"

A bloodied lick of blond hair drifted in front of his eyes, and in lieu of brushing it away with his injured hands, he swayed his head to move it away. "I won't lie to you, Rosita, what you did was stupid, but it was understandable. You were scared, and scared people do stupid things. But you have to keep a clear head. Don't do something like this again."

"I won't, I promise, I was just scared, I won't do this again," she vowed, her hands bunched so tightly around his that he was beginning to lose sensation from the lack of circulation.

Yanking off her shirt and tearing the fabric to shreds, Rosita made to bandage his sliced open palms with knots of cloth. She knew close to nothing about first aid, but binding the cuts with rudimentary bandages and applying pressure on them seemed to slow down the bleeding at least. Soaked clean of blood, the cut to Shaun hands appeared as two ragged, extensive cuts that ran in a diagonal line across each palm. It didn't take a palm reader to spell out what lay in wait – blood loss and infection. Even with the most advanced of medical sciences, they'd be looking at scars that wouldn't fade away after decades.

She looked up, her eyes gleaming with moisture. "I can't do this, Shaun."

"Yes, you can," he answered her with greater resolve than she thought she could ever possess. "You can't do this alone, and neither can I, but as long as we stay together, we can do this."

He flexed his hands, and his expression spoke clearly of the blinding fire that seared his hands. Still, he said nothing of the pain and wriggled his fingers to ensure he still had functionality in each one of them. Rosita looked on gingerly, knowing that she had been the cause yet unable to say or do anything that could alleviate his pain. "What I did, it's bad... Isn't it?"

It was a rhetorical question, but he gave her answer all the same. "Not really. I can manage, just... make sure you don't do anything like this again."

"I'm sorry," she said again, hating herself for wounding him and not being able to absolve his pain. He waved off her apology with a tiny sound that could have been a casual laugh.

With a pained wince, Shaun moved his arms robotically and pulled out a Calipatria 914 pistol from his holster, taking extra care in placing a trembling finger in front of the trigger. "Fingers still working. I promised to cherish and protect you, Rosita. That promise is valid even in this situation. I don't care what I'm going to do, or who's going to get hurt in the process, but I'll protect you."

"I love you, Shaun," she said with passion and sincerity that she had never known she was capable of.

Letting the handgun clatter from his stiff-jointed hands, Shaun twisted his lips in a wry smile, but didn't miss a beat as he responded, "I love you too, Rosita. Nothing will ever change that."

Their hands laced together, fingers twining to find their perfect place in the crooks between each knuckle. His bandages were warm and sticky with dark blood, soaked through in a matter of minutes. Rosita had thought the hot tears on her flushed cheeks would mark her out as a turncoat, and she was wrong. There were scars that spoke deeply of her betrayal, and they were etched to the bone in Shaun's palms.


End file.
